


A Study At Bullimore

by i_smell_a_fandom



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Angst, Beaches, Bisexual John Watson, Caring Greg Lestrade, Depressed Sherlock Holmes, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Drama & Romance, Eating Disorders, Fluff and Angst, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Greg Lestrade & Mike Stamford Friendship, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, Greg is Sweet, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, John Watson isn't Northern, John Watson's Father is Abusive, John Watson's Father is Terrible, John Watson's Jumpers, John Watson's past, John is a Mess, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Matchmaker Mike Stamford, Mental Anguish, Mentioned Mary Morstan, Mentioned Mycroft Holmes, Mike Stamford is a good friend, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Non-Graphic Smut, Past Abuse, Past Tense, Private School, References to Depression, References to Suicide, Romantic Fluff, Secret Relationship, Self-Harm, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Hug, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Sherlock Holmes is Depressed, Sherlock is Rich, Sherlock is a Mess, Sherlock's Mind Palace, Sherlock's Mother is a Bitch, Sherlock's Violin, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Suicide Attempt, Sunsets, TJLC | The Johnlock Conspiracy, Tense, Young Sherlock Holmes - Freeform, gay angst, gay kiss, references to self harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:35:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 40,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23450296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_smell_a_fandom/pseuds/i_smell_a_fandom
Summary: John Watson, despite all odds, earns a place at Bullimore Sixth, a high achievers school in the middle of the countryside. There, he meets his room mate, Sherlock Holmes, and it changes their lives forever.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 53
Kudos: 112





	1. Chapter 1

  
John Watson stepped out of his sister’s ford, running his hands through his hair. It was the end of August, yet the summer sun still remained hot and high in the sky. It felt as though this summer would never end. John, however, still donned a jumper, with rolled up sleeves. Just in case it started raining he had said.  
In front of him was a large iron gate protecting a bricked drive, which snaked around the hill he had just driven up. A top that hill was a grade 2 listed building that would become his school for two years. The best school in the country, he had been told, also one of the most expensive. This made his stomach twist, but he ignored it and walked round to the back of the vehicle. Inside was his case which contained his clothes and books for the year, and thus it was too heavy to lift alone.

"Harry, can you give me a hand?" John asked, dropping the case back in the boot with a thump. He’d only been able to lift it a few inches before he needed to put it down. There was a pause, a rumble from inside, before Harry opened the door and stomped round to John  
She was the complete opposite to him. Loud and boyish with long curly hair and blue eyes. She adjusted her black t shirt, pulling it further down her stomach, before bending down to pickup the case.  
"Fucking hell John, what's in there?" She asked, bending to pick up the case for as second time.  
John lowered his brows in confusion as he grabbed the other side.  
"Literally a years-worth of clothes and my textbooks. " The school had sent him the books and he felt proud to call them his.  
"I didn't know you had so many. You only wear jumpers" John suddenly felt self-conscious.  
"Look, jumpers go with everything. They are a staple to this society."  
"Jumpers and tea? Jesus you couldn't get more British if you tried." They dropped the case at the side gate. "Maybe you should try something different."  
"What like denim?" John laughed as he walked towards the intercom, nodding at his sisters own denim jacket.  
"Women like denim, John"  
"Yeah, I'll keep that in mind at my all boy’s school." He retorted, buzzing the glowing button. The introduction guide said that they should buzz in and get a member of staff to carry the case, but having other people do things for him made John feel uneasy. He'd always been independent, and didn't see why that had to change now. He quickly said his name, and was told that someone would be down to collect him, before the intercom cut out.  
“I cannot believe you managed to make it here.” Harry exclaimed in awe.  
“You did the driving.” Teased John. He hated these conversations. All he did was study. Harry hit his arm.  
“You know what I mean.” John huffed dismissively. “I’m proud of you.” He cleared his throat.  
“Thank you.” And Harry sighed.  
“You need to learn to take a compliment John. You should be proud of yourself.” 

He went to argue back when there was a sudden buzzing from the gates as they opened and a stretched black car rolled passed. It parked next to Harry’s, suddenly making John feel poorer than he already was, and a man in a black suit stepped out the car. It felt very much like a kidnapping, but Harry nodded for him to get inside. Before he could though, she gave him a hug, her mouth pressed into his ear.  
"Be good, okay."  
"Okay. See you soon" He responded, almost wrestling out of her grip. She stepped back, nodded to the driver and got into her car. He waved her a brief goodbye in response, before getting in the stretched car. The driver slammed the door behind him, the red Ford becoming dark behind the tinted glass.

As the car rolled ahead, John folded his hands in his lap. He felt anxious. New people. New, rich people with more money John could ever dream of owning. How could he be friends with people he couldn’t relate to? Perhaps he could pretend to be some prince from somewhere in Eastern Europe. As he deliberated this, the car began moving up hill, the stones crunchy under the wheels. Somewhere behind him, John heard the gates slam and he suddenly realised that this was all very real. Perhaps they would like him for who he was. Perhaps people would like his awkward laugh and love for knitted wear. Perhaps they would be able to ignore that he didn’t belong there, at least not financially, and he could make friends. And, as John began to wish, the car turned up the drive and towards the school. 

The building was incredible, its walls high and brown bricked, crumbing and chiselled with age. Purple and white flowers climbed around the walls, stretching around the white framed windows and towards the roof. As the car pulled around the corner, John saw the front of the school, the way it curved. Below its doors were two sets of sweeping stairs, polished and white. It seemed inhumanly big and he couldn’t help but wonder how many rooms there were inside.

"It's very nice." John half whispered, a little dumbfounded.  
"It's nicer in the snow." Remarked the driver as the car pulled to a stop just before the doors.  
John wasn't quite sure whether he ought to have helped the driver with his case, so awkwardly stood by the boot of the car. The driver bent to open the back, before looking up at John.  
"You can go in, I'll bring this to your dorm." John hesitated before muttering a 'thank you' and walking in the direction of the entrance.  
The school seemed larger upfront, the curved glass roof reflecting the sunlight. He was surrounded by fields, the lawn immaculately trimmed and, in the distance, he could see a river. As he climbed the stairs, John wondered if the other buildings were part of the school.  
Even the door reeked of the upper class, its surface finely polished and carved with flowers and John couldn’t help but feel its ridges before pushing open the door.  
The entrance hall was large, with a desk placed in front of the stairs, mirroring the ones that John had walked up outside. There was a globe light on the desk, and a wide screen behind the desk, positioned just under the bannister, the entire room illuminated by the glass roof above.. To his left and right were corridors, with a sign with room numbers on them, as well as the words East and West. 

John hesitated, before walking towards the desk at the front. He could see a woman behind the desk, arched over her paperwork. He assumed it was the person he spoke to outside. She looked up when she heard John approach, her face first confused before flattening to a smile.  
"How can I help?" Her tone was warm and friendly and it made John relaxed a little.  
"I'm John Watson. I'm new." She nodded as he cleared his throat, looking down to filter through the papers on her desk. John rolled down his sleeves, suddenly aware that he must appear extremely unprofessional. He wanted to assert himself as belonging as soon as possible.  
She sat up and slid a booklet across the desk, along with two keys.  
"That's your guide and your welcome pack. The large key is the key to the dorm house and the other a key to your room. Your dorm is in building two, on the second floor, room 1 B. Term starts tomorrow, 8:15, and students will begin to arrive from 5 o'clock tonight. If you have any problems, let me know.” John found himself nodding vigorously, taking the pack and fumbling with the pages as she looked back down, indicating that John ought to leave.  
"Thank you." He mumbled, turning towards the door. Somewhere, a clock struck 2 and suddenly he felt very alone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I wrote this a while ago but edited it today. I haven't slept, what a cool kid, so if you see any spelling/grammar problems please ignore them. Next chapter we FINALLY meet someone. How mysterious. I guess I'll update twice a week? okay bye

John hurried across the grounds, the sun cooking him in his sweater. He wondered if he came across as rude? He didn’t smile enough or hold her eye contact and failing at social interaction with the first teacher on the first day really made him uncomfortable. If he couldn’t navigate one person, how would he navigate 100?  
His dorm was halfway across the grounds, by a cluster of trees. Surrounded by a picket fence, the house reminded him of a classic English cottage. Made of grey brick, with roses climbing up the windows, it truly felt like a house he always wanted. The terracotta roof reflected the sun and John had to shield his eyes as he searched in the pack for his house key. It was heavy and slotted neatly into the wooden door, and turned easily in the lock. After taking a deep breath, John pushed it open.  
—

The entrance opened immediately into the kitchen and living room. It was open plan, it seemed, with large windows either side that let in the summers light. On his left John could see a few sofas, along with armchairs next to a fireplace. The were made of old leather and draped with a mismatch of blankets that added to the homely feel. John could see himself reflected in the mirror above the fireplace and, upon seeing his reflection, brushed his hair out of his face in an effort to look for refined. It didn’t work and instead he was left with a Tin-Tin like quiff. On the shelves on the furthest wall of the living room were thick textbooks, as well as a radio. To his right was the kitchen, which had a silver double doored fridge, an aga and a sink, as well as cupboards lining the walls. There were random knick knacks, like a metal statue, stood on the centre of the kitchen table and a vase of flowers on the windowsill. Everything was oddly mismatched but in a way that was charming. 

"Hello?" He said into the stillness, "is anyone here?" There was no reply, the clock on the wall ticking like a metronome. So, John took off his shoes and left them by the door. 

Straight ahead of him was a low doorway, which John walked through. It lead to a blue tiled room which had a number of washing machines in, as well as a washing line that ran parallel to the ceiling. It seemed as though they were expected to do their own laundry. To his left was a door which had the number 21 carved into the wood. Behind that door, John assumed, was a corridor of rooms that held dorms. Instead, John followed the room along to another doorway, which was signed ‘upstairs’. This was where John assumed dorm would be, so he walked through the door and up the curving stairs. He could feel the cold against the holes in his socks, the slats of the wooden planks scruffy and stained, as if unkept. At the top of the stairs was another corridor. There were two doors at opposite ends of the corridor. One read 22 and the other 23. John tried his key for 22, and it came open. 

After stepping through the door, John closed it firmly behind him, listening to it click into place. There were only 3 doors in this corridor, and John quickly found room 1b. The B, he assumed, meant there were other room 1s in the house. He was surprised how large the house was, the exterior fooling him into expecting a smaller building.  
His dorm room was larger than expected, with two single beds, two desks and a 3 sets of shelves. The two beds were pushed against the left and right wall, with a desk at the bottom of each bed, the chairs facing away from the door. There were a set of shelves on each wall, as well as a chest of drawers and a wardrobe near the window. John picked the bed to the left of the door, placing his welcome pack on the sheets, before gazing out of the window. 

It had a stunning view, showing the fields stretching far away. John could just catch a glimpse of water, which must have been some sort of river. Surrounding the base of the hill that John had driven up only an hour before was a woodland, almost defending the school, with horses wandering back and forth across the pastures. He worried that his roommate would be an arsehole. He shared a room with Harry his entire life, so it wasn’t anything new. However, sharing with someone he didn’t know made his stomach twist.  
But at least he was here, at Bullimore Sixth, despite all the odds. The amount of hard work and endless hours of study had paid off. 100% of the fees paid, so all he had to worry about was his studies. I deserve to be here, he reminded himself, I deserve to be here more than some of the rich kids. With a small, self-congratulating smile, John stepped back from the frame, before opening his guide.

The front was glossy and dark blue, with a picture of the school on the front, along with the words 'strength through education. Bullimore Sixth' This phrase made John laugh. What did that mean? The first page had a Welcome From The Head Teacher, along with their photo. John didn't care to read the page, but noticed the phrase "excellence can only be achieved by one’s own determination to succeed." John snorted, it sounded as if the teacher had never seen anywhere else except for the inside of a private school. 

The next page was filled about the information for scholarship students. After reading the page, a hard lump formed in John’s throat. It wasn’t information he didn’t already know, but seeing it formally, in writing made him feel worse. ‘Failure to maintain the grades you entered the school in will lead to the scholarship being revoked.’ For John, a revoked scholarship would mean that he’d have to leave the school. He didn’t have the money to pay £8,000 a term just for school. ‘Scholarships can also be revoked due to poor behaviour e.g. More than one detention per term, consistent underachievement and teacher referral.’ John had never got detentions at Raglesfield High, his old school, so he didn’t think that would be an issue. ‘As a school, we understand that students can have bad exams. However, if a students’ class work and exam results reflect a lack of care or intelligence, then the opportunity to carry on this programme will be removed.’  
This somehow made John feel worse. He was a scholar in all 4 of his subjects, so fees were completely paid, but if he dropped just one of the grades in his subjects, he would have to leave. The thought made him sic. He came to Bullimore because of the opportunities he would be able to gain from it, the networking, as well as the quality of education. Raglesfield, in contrast, had been one of the worst schools in London. It was known for its notoriously bad behaviour, low grades and poor facilities. John still couldn’t believe that he had managed to obtain a scholarship. 

“I’m so proud of you.” Is what Harry had immediately said to John. They had opened the acceptance letter from Bullimore together in Harry’s bedroom.  
“I can’t believe it.” Was all John could say. She ruffled his hair.  
“Are you going to tell dad?” John had looked up at her and shook his head. Harry shrugged. “Mum would be proud.”  
“I hope so.”  
“I know she would, Johnny.” 

And now, as John lay down on his bed, resting the pack on his stomach, he wished that his mother would be proud of him. Silently, as he fell asleep, John promised her that he’d make his life better at this school. I’ll try my best to make things better.


	3. Chapter 3

"Hello."  
"Fucking hell." John sat bolt upright gripping the covers of his duvet, the welcome pack sliding off his lap and onto the floor. The room was darker than when he had lay down, the sun less intense in the sky, washing the room in a peachy orange glow. There was a figure in the doorway. John bent down to pick up the pack off the floor.  
"Nice to meet you too." The voice replied cheerfully, smirking, before stepping into the light.  
He had brown wavy hair with blue eyes and a wide frame. He somehow looked familiar. John was tired though, so he couldn't remember why.  
"Hang on. Is that you, John?" The voice said, now with a familiarity to it.  
"Um yes. Sorry, do I know you?" John asked, pressing his back against the wall. His brain was still foggy.  
"It's Mike. Mike Stamford? We went to school together?" It did not ring a bell.  
"Yes, Mike. Hello." John leant forward to shake his hand. Mike smiled and took it. He did not know who Mike was.  
"So what brings you here?" He asked, wandering across the room and sitting on the opposite bed. It creaked below his weight.  
"I'm here on a scholarship."  
"What's your programme?" Mike pushed his thin framed glasses up his nose.  
"I'm not on a programme. I've got a complete scholarship, so every subject is a specialty one." John rubbed the back of his neck. "I guess it'd be science though, biology." God, he felt like a pretentious twat.  
Mike blinked twice.  
"Bloody hell John, they only give out 100% scholarships once in a blue moon. You must be smart." John cleared his throat.  
"Well..." He paused, wanting to change the subject as quickly as possible. "Are you on a scholarship?" Mike laughed.  
"No, no, my granny's paying for this. My family want me to go to Oxbridge or Harvard, so they think I need the best education." John nodded. Imagine being able to pay £8,000 a term.  
"So, have you been here long?"  
"All of secondary school." Mike replied. £120,000 on just school. John couldn't imagine that kind of money. There was silence for a moment, before John cleared his throat again.  
"Are - are you my roommate?" John enquired. He partly wanted Mike to say no, simply because he couldn't remember anything about the boy and he would have to fill in parts of information when he could. He hadn’t seen him since primary school, so he wasn’t sure how Mike remembered him.  
"Oh no; I'm in the room next door. I don't know who yours is. I only came in because your door was open. Dinners at 7:30 by the way. It’s in the main hall. We can go over together if you want?" Mike said, as he left. "If you need anything, just ask."  
"I will, thank you." 

-

Whilst he had been asleep, somebody had dropped of his trunk, so John spent his time unpacking. It was mostly jumpers and trousers, although there was one green polo shirt. At the bottom of the case was the uniform. A burgundy blazer, burgundy tie and black trousers. Also, a black cap with the school emblem on it for special events. It was ugly, but would become the staple of his wardrobe for the next year. John put the blazer on over his jumper. It was a little big for him, the edge of the sleeves ending at the palm of his hand. Hopefully, he would grow into it. His previous school hadn't enforced uniform rules so John never wore his blazer. The polyester was abrasive on his skin but the uniform was not optional at the school. John stretched out his arms, maybe the starch would come out with age.

He was glad to have met Mike. Although he could remember much of him, it meant that it he now had a guaranteed friend group. He hoped that they weren’t all posh twats. At least Mike seemed nice enough and, if his friends were similar, John felt as though this year wouldn’t be that bad after all. As he unpacked, the hubbub from downstairs grew as more students were arriving. They sounded excited, greeting each other eagerly after the summer break. John remained upstairs, however, not wanting to introduce himself to a large group of people.

After he was finished, he sat back onto his bed, re-opening the guide that listed the timetable. Just as he began to lie back down, a key clicked in the lock, the door swinging open and a figure strode in. John sat up suddenly in surprise.

"Hello, who are you?" Said the boy.  
"I-I'm John Watson. Pleased to meet you." John stood and stuck out his hand, and the tall boy shook it firmly.  
"Nice to meet you John. Your shoes are by the door." There was a beat.  
"My shoes?" John cocked his head. "Oh, my shoes! How did you know they were my shoes?"  
"Your trunk is empty so you've been here long enough to unpack, and the key was left in this lock" The boy threw the key to John, which he caught. "You've got holes in your socks and the shoes downstairs are scuffed and worn, clearly you can't buy new shoes. No one’s feet here are that small, and you’re the only new person I’ve seen. Thus, the shoes are yours." The boy threw himself on the bed, landing with his hands behind his head. The door swung shut.  
"Incredible."  
"What?" Snapped the boy, whipping his head round to face John.  
"I said incredible."  
"Thank you." He replied, a little bemused. "Usually people say fuck off."  
"Well," John responded, laughing airily. "I think it's very good."  
"Thank you John."  
"No problem." Silence. "Sorry, what's your name?"  
"Sherlock Holmes." He replied, shaking out his curls and shifting his white shirt. "I'm going out for a smoke." Sherlock said nothing more, stood up and walked off. John was left a little startled, the guide still in his hands.

—

At 7 o’clock, Mike knocked for John and they walked across the grounds. Another boy, named Greg, joined them halfway there. He had jet black hair and soft brown eyes. John liked the look of him and, when he spoke, he had a rough tone. 

"So, Sherlock Holmes is your roomie? John nodded, spooning mash onto his plate. Greg grinned. The headteacher had finally stopped speaking about school community and pride and they were allowed to start eating.  
"What? Is Sherlock known for being bad or something." Greg and Mike laughed.  
"No, you'll just see. Sherlock can be challenging sometimes." Greg replied, cutting into his beef. "He's smart too, so I think you'll get on well."  
"You either get on with Sherlock, or you don't." Mike added.  
"Well, I guess I'll have to see." John replied, not worried at all.  
John's eyes scanned the room for Sherlock, but he was nowhere to be seen. The school had collected in the main hall, the ceiling was high with beams running horizontally across it. There were floor to ceiling windows, and long tables running the length of the hall. There were around 140 students of different ages eating together. It was a joyful atmosphere and felt Hogwarts esc. At the front was the staff table, which had around 20 teachers sat on it, with the head in the middle.  
"I haven't seen him since this afternoon." John added. He was almost shouting, there were so many loud voices.  
"He does that a lot. He just goes off without saying anything. Last time the police got involved. The school thought he was missing when really he was in the woods thinking." Mike mocked, putting the 'thinking' in air quotes.  
"He sounds nuts." John sighed.  
"Maybe he is." Greg replied. 

John swallowed. His roommate was a nut case who went off without telling anyone and his education was screwed unless he maintained his ridiculous grades. Now he almost missed Raglesfield.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: REFERENCES TO HOMOPHOBIC AND DOMESTIC ABUSE

At 7 am the next morning, a church bell sounded for the borders to wake. John sat up and rubbed his eyes. He hadn't slept too well, he'd been worrying about being dropped by the school. The morning was light, the sun poking through the holes under the curtain. There was a ball of anxiety in John’s stomach, today lessons began.  
He turned over to see if Sherlock was in bed. When he had fallen asleep, Sherlock had not returned and John didn't hear him come in. Yet Sherlock was there, asleep in his bed, his curls were splayed across the pillow and he seemed too at rest to wake. John didn't know if he ought to wake the sleeping boy, but the second bell did not stir Sherlock.  
John got dressed quietly into a jumper and some trousers before prodding Sherlock. He'd get into his uniform after breakfast.  
"Sherlock, you need to get up." John said gently. He didn't want to get jumped when Sherlock woke up, so was waking him from a distance. Greg and Mike had made him sound a bit batshit, so John felt safer this way. When Sherlock did not wake John repeated louder “Sherlock! Come on" and shook his shoulder.

Sherlock whipped his head round fast, alertness on his face. John stumbled back, spooked by Sherlock's reaction.  
"Sorry, I didn't want you to miss breakfast."  
Sherlock remained frozen for a moment before he blink, his face re animating as if it were stuck on pause.  
"It's fine. Can you not in future, I don't eat breakfast most of the time."  
"That's not good." John replied, unfolding his shirt.  
" It slows my brain down. Why waste brain power on processing food?"  
"Because without food you won’t have the energy to process properly." John replied automatically. Sherlock looked at him inquisitively. "Please don't read into that." Sherlock nodded, but John knew it was too late.  
“If it makes you happy, I’ll grab some cereal downstairs in a bit.” He replied before rolling over. John nodded, before heading towards the school.

-

After breakfast was first period. It felt strange to be in a proper uniform. The starch pressed shirt restricted his movement, and he found himself rolling up his sleeves to write in the English lesson. They were beginning some classical poetry, a mixture of 19th and 20th century content, and so the lesson wasn’t too intense. Still, John ensure to look interested the entire time, eagerly writing in his exercise book and highlighting the poetry. The desks were in single, long rows that spanned the length of the classroom. The room itself was large too, the ceiling high with long windows the ran its perimeter. John liked the light. His old school had been made of grey concrete and the windows clouded with smog, so the bright feel of the dark oak floors and French windows made him feel rich. 

At the end of period bell, he quickly packed his belongings and thanked his teacher under his breath, anxious to find the library. He had a map that told him where all the rooms were, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself by opening it. Instead, John followed the corridor until he ended up by the reception he went to when he first arrived, and scanned the signs for the word ‘library.’ It wasn’t on the signs, so he went outside to look round the grounds. Luckily, there was a large sign-post at the back of the building with arrows pointing in different directions with the numerous building names on them. The library was to the left of the building, apparently, so John began to make his way across the ground towards the it.  
It was an exact circle, the roof shaped like a mound and made of glass, like the min building. The entrance was framed by two large stone pillars, chiselled with flowered, and the door made of heavy wood, the thickness of john’s arm. The interior was huge. It was the same size as the dining hall, every inch lined with shelves. There were two floors to it, a balcony for the second floor that had desks pushed against it, so that people could over-look the library. At centre of the library was a large column of light on the centre. Surrounding that was circular desk where students could check in and out books.

John chose a spot by the circular window on the second floor. It looked across the grounds. With a sense of calm, John opened his study guide. It was thick and contained comparative analysis for his poems in English. It smelt like new ink. John only needed to read up to page 8 and make notes, but John wanted to get to page 20 to get a head start. It would lead to less pressure in the long run. After about 3 pages, John felt a presence in front of him. They had silently slipped into the chair opposite him. John looked up.

"Hello Sherlock." He said.  
"John." He replied, steep-ling his hands under his chin and staring off into the distance. John stared at Sherlock, his eyes flickering between the page and the boy. The table was surrounded by shelves either side, so Sherlock must have intentionally picked to sit with John.  
"Um...did you want something?" He asked sheepishly. Sherlock didn't respond for a moment, his eyes flicking to John with no recognition. After a moment, life came back into him.  
"Ah, no. Everywhere else was too loud. Do you have any paper?" John nodded, ripping out a page of his notebook and passing it to Sherlock. "A pen?" John paused and searched his pencil case.  
"Sure, here" John gave him a black ballpoint, meeting the boy's demands.  
"Thank you." Sherlock then bent his head and began writing rapidly. John licked his lips anxiously; did he need to say something else? 

Apparently not, because Sherlock continued writing. John himself bent his head back down to read, but he felt almost intimidated by Sherlock's presence, so gave up after page 5. He didn't know whether to leave or not, so resorted to gazing out the window.  
Harry was at home, most likely, cleaning up the mess that their father had made. Although he called him Dad to his face, he was always Father in his head. John wanted to disassociate himself with that man as much as possible. After John's mum divorced his dad when he was young, his father became the exact opposite of a father figure. Abusive, manipulative and a general prick. He'd driven John's mum away. He closed his eyes. Don't think about that now.

Bullimore was a chance to escape. He could leave that house and live the life he wanted to live. John sighed, whatever that meant.  
Harry was 6 years older than John, 23 this year, and was tougher than him. She always had been. Perhaps it was that she remembered mum more, could remember all the things their father had done. Either way, Harry gave no shits about what her father thought and would live her life as she wished. She had a girlfriend, and told their dad to suck it up or fuck off. He didn't seem to care, not in an accepting way but more that he got some sick pleasure from the fact that his daughter was a lesbian. That thought disturbed John quite a bit.  
He wondered if Harry would be okay at home. If she would be safe. If dad would try anything when drunk and—- 

"John." John turned to Sherlock, his heartbeat in his mouth. "I am finished now, thank you for letting me use your pen."  
"No problem." John replied, stuttering. As Sherlock stood up to leave, tucking in his chair, he looked to John.  
"Are you alright" He asked in a monotonous tone.  
"Yes, I'm fine." John said. Sherlock nodded and walked away and John slammed his book shut, suddenly feeling a sick panic he hadn't felt in a while. The insects at the back of his head suddenly beating their wings loudly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John speaks to Anderson for the first time, who says some unkind things about Sherlock before going to a Chemistry lesson. Together, John and Sherlock sit an exam when suddenly Sherlock becomes cold towards a confused John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! hope you're okay. my updates are sporadic but I aim to update twice a week. I've written quite far ahead, so if you want more updates I can give them to you. okay gucci, enjoy.

At break John took the time to make himself some tea in the dorm kitchen. He could have gone to the main hall to make it, but lots of people didn't seem like the best idea. He'd almost had a panic attack, something that hadn't happened in a while. 

He filled the kettle at the tap and put it onto boil, the machine making a satisfying click when the button was pushed. Behind him, people were talking. There were around 18 people in his dorm, which was only lower six, as well as teacher. John still hadn't seen the dorm tutor and wondered if they really existed at all or if it was a scare tactic. Either way, it seemed to work. The behaviour was exemplar.

"Hi." A guy next to him said as he reached across the cupboard above John's head. John didn't feel like talking, but equally didn't want to get off on the wrong foot with his dorm mates. The boy opened the cupboard and reached for a packet of biscuits. "I'm Philip" John smiled forcefully.  
"Nice to meet you, I'm John"  
"Would you like me to get some mugs? If you're boiling the kettle, can you pour me a cup." John nodded as Philip bent down to his right to open a cupboard, producing several mugs. "Would anyone like a cup of tea?" He called to the group behind him. Someone groaned.  
"Not if you're making them I won't, Anderson." Called a voice. Philip looked down sheepishly.  
"Just you and I then." He mumbled, hurt.  
"I guess" John replied, pouring boiling water into two chipped mugs. "Do you take sugar."  
"I did, until you poured the water in." Philip remarked.  
"Oh, sorry" John stirred his tea bag.  
"It's fine, don't worry." John walked over to the fridge and pulled out a green carton of milk, before pouring milk into his mug. He gestured to Philip, who nodded, before sloshing milk into his mug too.  
"Thanks." Philip said, picking up the mug.  
"No problem." John smiled, pressing the mug into his hands. He turned away from Philip to go and sit down.  
"Wait, John. Before you go, can I give you some advice?" John turned back to Philip before nodding.  
"Sure."  
"Be careful with Sherlock. You don't know him like I do. He's dangerous. Don't get too close." John paused before answering.  
"Okay, thank you Anderson, I'll keep it in mind." John put emphasis on the Anderson, ensuring that he knew he upset John. John felt a desire to defend his roommate and he would do it in the most passive aggressive way possible. 

It still made him feel uneasy though, the gossip around Sherlock. Anderson was not the first person to mention his personality, and John felt he would not be the last. Still,, Sherlock had been mostly nice to John. He seemed eccentric, that was all. John couldn’t figure him out though. 

\---

The following period was chemistry, John's least favourite subject. In order to get into medicine school, however, he needed to be able to pass chemistry as well as biology. John refused to do physics, it made his head hurt.

The science rooms were on the left hand side of the building, on the second floor. There were 3 of them, and John's room was in the middle of the 3. The walls were white covered with posters of the periodic table and ionic bonds, with a fume cabinet in the right hand corner and desks in rows of 3. John sat in the middle row, in the right corner, next to the window. He liked being able to look out at the grounds. On this side of the building, he could see the horses. 

The classroom became busier as the time for class to start came closer. John watched his classmates clatter into seats. They seemed to be talking to each other in warm tones that John longed for in his friends. Instead, he had Sherlock who said barely anything at all and Mike, who he had spoken to once. The middle desks filled up first, before people took to the back rows. It wasn't a particularly large class, but the seats filled up quickly. John saw Mike and went to beckon him to his seat, but he sat with another boy, who had shaggy blonde hair. John realised that he had isolated himself from the others which meant that in any practical work, he would be forced into a group, and automatic outcast. 

Just as the 3rd period bell went, Sherlock Holmes walked through the door, slotting in the seat next to John. He simply put his bag down without saying anything to John and remained stood as the Science teacher walked in. All the other students stood too, and John followed suit. This was not something John had ever done before. The teacher was a small man, with thick curly black hair and a strong moustache. 

"You may be seated." He said in a deep tone, similar to Sherlock's, and the boys did as they were told. "I am Mr Huchoo, but you will call me Sir. I am a new tutor to your year group, but I have been teaching A level Chemistry for 20 years. Any misbehaviour in this class will result in a detention, which leads to a negative mark on your school report. This report will be put on your university applications and will reflect you as a student. I want the best grades from you; and I will achieve this through any means necessary."  
Now feeling threatened, John dared not to look at Sherlock in fear that he may have been shot on sight. Instead, he got out his thick text book and wrote his on the inside cover, as well as on the front of the exercise book he had been given. He felt Sherlock watching him write on his book, and the black haired boy followed suit. John found himself looking for almost too long, admiring his cursive handwriting and the length of his fingers. 

"John Watson" The teacher called, and John looked away from Sherlock’s hands and to the front.  
"Yes sir?" He faltered, his eyes meeting those of his teacher.  
"I was asking you to come and collect a test paper." A test? On the first lesson!  
"Yes Sir, sorry sir." John got up from his seat and walked over to the front desk, where there was a stack of papers.  
"Next time you fail to follow my instructions, you will have a detention." The teacher said, deliberately emphasising every word to the entire class. John swallowed thickly and nodded his head. John knew he was being made an example of, but a detention could be detrimental to his scholarship. He could see Sherlock looking at him from his peripheries and as he walked back to his seat the boy raised his eyebrow slightly, almost a sign of solidarity. "Book away Watson." John looked up, startled, before fumbling with his bag to put his text book in it. Why were his hands shaking as he flattened out his test paper in front of him? Sherlock hadn’t seemed to have noticed, and John wasn’t sure why he cared . Breathe, he told himself as he could hear the loud thumping in his ears."You may start the exam." 

—

The exam had been difficult. Not because of the content, but simply because John couldn't focus and blamed it on the almost panic attack he had almost had prior to the lesson. Sherlock had been one of the first students to finish, which made him feel more anxiuos and, when he finished just before the bell, he felt himself flush with embarrassment as the last student to hand in the paper. Sherlock had waited for him outside the door after class and together they had walked back to the dorm. John decided that dinner and bed would be the best medicine for his anxiety so, once they got inside, he made himself some pasta and Sherlock went upstairs, seemingly preoccupied.

Upstairs, Sherlock Holmes was lying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling with his fingers steepled under his chin. John didn't know whether to say anything, so closed the door gently and padded cautiously across the room to read up on his chemistry book. The exam had reminded him of how little he remembered. Perhaps the others in his class had tutoring over the summer and were already ahead of him? This was a sobering thought. As he sat down, the bed groaned, which made Sherlock's eyes flick to John. Again, Sherlock said nothing, and John watched him sit up over his book. 

"You alright, Sherlock?" John asked as Sherlock tied his laces.  
"What? Yes. Yes I'm fine. I’m just going out." He said, walking towards the door and leaving with no further explanation. John has opened his mouth to speak, but the door had clicked shut just as he did.

He wondered if Sherlock simply hated him. Perhaps John was so irritating that the boy couldn't bear to be in the same room as him? As far as he knew, John had done nothing wrong, but judging by what Greg and Mike said, Sherlock was a person who was easily irritated. And, although he tried not to focus on it too much, he found his brain circling thoughts of losing the closest thing to a friend, as well as the face of his mother and whether she would be disappointed in him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ive planned the entire fic and you guys better be strapped in for a rollercoaster. I think there's gonna be about 20 more chapters.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, Sherlock was no where to be seen. Perhaps he had already woken up? John doubted it, and tried to suppress the bubble of anxiety in his stomach with a cup of strong tea. He wasn’t sure why he cared about Sherlock, but he did, and his roommates abrupt comings and goings put him on edge. The least he could do is let him know what he was doing. He guessed Sherlock didn’t owe him that, they weren’t friends after all.

John shuffled downstairs as quietly as he could. It was still early and he wouldn’t be popular with his peers if he woke them up every morning. There weren't many people milling around the downstairs. Anderson was sitting alone on the sofa, whilst another man was curled in the head nearest to the fireplace. It was quiet, and John revelled in the silence.

"Alright John." Greg said in a rough voice. It was clear he was feeling unwell, and the disheveled sight of the man-made John laugh. Greg was still wearing his pyjamas, as well as a pair of worn slippers that slapped dully against the wooden floor.  
"Alright Greg? You're looking a bit rough." John smiled, thoughts about Sherlock quickly forgotten.  
"What? Yes. I'm fine. I'm fine. Just need some water." Greg gestured to John that he needed a glass, so John stepped away from the cupboard and instead rested himself by the fridge.   
"Are you coming down to breakfast?" Asked John, purposefully loudly. Those already downstairs turned to John, and Greg looked up with annoyance on his face.  
"No, I don't think so. Neither is Mike." John smiled to himself again as Greg filled his glass at the fridge.  
"At least it's Friday!" Returned John, trying to put a positive spin on his new friends hangover.   
"That's one way of looking at it." Returned Greg as he took small sips from his cup  
"Well, what's the other?" John enquired.  
"Tomorrow is rugby try outs, which means another early morning." Greg put his hand to his temple, clearly pained by the thought of an early rise once again.   
"What time?"   
"8:30." Replied Greg, downing the glass and walking away, waving backwards as he did. 

John played rugby at his old school. It was a key part of the curriculum. Boys played rugby in the mud whilst the girls played netball or badminton. He wasn't bad either. He was on the team for 3 years, and rugby captain of the B squad for 1. But this was a good school, John realised, there was no way that he'd get on the team. Maybe he would try? He decided he would see how he felt in the morning.

Tea cup in hand, he pushed open the dorm room door before almost having a heart attack. Sherlock saw John's startled face and smiled chaotically, his mouth closed and lips stretched upwards.

"Hello John." He said in a cool tone.  
"Where the hell have you come from?" John asked, placing his cup on his desk as he shut the door.  
"I've been here for the last 4 minutes."   
"Right. I didn't see you come up."   
"I'm good at being quiet when I want to be." Sherlock articulated. The atmosphere suddenly shifting.  
"I'll keep that in mind." John replied in a low tone, sitting on the bed.

Neither boy said anything, they simply looked each other in the eyes. John wondered how long they would stay like this, frozen and looking at each other. He wasn't complaining. He rather like the way Sherlock looked. His hair was falling in messy black curls, fluffy and windswept. Sherlock still wore the white shirt from the other day, as well as black trousers. They had light mud stains on the cuffs. Despite looking ragged, he somehow managed to still look good. Sherlock did not seem to be resistant in holding his gaze, it seemed more like a challenge.   
There was a knock on the door. Both the men looked to it, before Sherlock turned back to John and raised his right eyebrow. John cleared his throat and picked up his tea, pretending to be fixated on the inside of the cup whilst Sherlock lay back on his pillow and crossed his hands behind his head. 

"What." Sherlock called. The door opened. He heard Sherlock sigh. "What do you want, Anderson?" John looked up and saw Anderson standing in the centre of the doorway, dressed in his dressing gown.   
"Oh, hello Sherlock." Philip replied bitterly. He turned his head towards John. "Would you like to come to breakfast with me, John." John almost spat out his drink and watched Sherlock stifle a laugh out of the corner of his eye.  
"Um. I don't know. I might stay here and just have some toast." John replied, ignoring the impatient look from Sherlock.  
"Right. Well." Anderson replied.  
"Goodbye Anderson." Sherlock said, signalling with his hand to close the door. Anderson nodded, sighing. As he stepped away Sherlock called him back. "Anderson. You might want to tie your robe tighter. Just a suggestion" Anderson followed Sherlock's eye train to his hips and the gap in the robe before wrapping it round himself tighter and slamming the door.   
Someone knocked on the wall.  
"Sorry!" John called back, laughing.   
Sherlock smiled a somewhat genuine smile before lying to face the wall. Was John finally getting through to him? Sherlock seemed like a complicated person, so it was hard to know, but every time John doubted himself he seemed to remember the flick of Sherlock’s right eyebrow. A shared inside joke between them.


	7. Chapter 7

John decided to go to the try outs the next morning. It was a warm morning, the ground arguably too hard to play rugby on, but they wanted a team by rugby season. Then they could win the cup. Greg was there too, looking slightly better than the morning before but still a little grey, but other than him John was unfamiliar with the rest of people trying out. 

The teacher was a short man who stood with his hands on his hips and his legs spread slightly too far apart. They were standing on the rugby pitch, which was at the base of the hill, shadowed by the woodland. 

"Alright boys. We'll play 4 matches. As there are 20 of you here and we need 15, I'll pull out one or two each match. If you get pulled, tough tits. Better of next year." John cringed at the abrasive tone of the teacher. 4 matches. That's it.  
As John laced his boots, it occurred to him that all of the other people had been students at this school for years. They knew this teacher. He knew their strengths. He didn't know John's.

Don't think about that John. Just try. Come on.

John often played centre or as the open side forward. He was fast and surprisingly strong for his height, but when it came to positions he was given wing. He was unfamiliar with this placement but was determined to play as well s possible. If he could adapt to any situation, thy would be far more likely to put him on the team. As he was on the wide of the pitch, he was essentially watching the game play out until the ball was down his end. This happened twice, and twice he made the try. Once was by throwing the ball back and weaving round the larger player in front of him before just making the line. The second time was easy, the pass being easily made and the try being run. It wasn’t too bad of an experience. The final list would be stuck on the wall by the front desk by next Friday. 

John wasn't excited for the results. It didn't matter to him if he got on or not, trying was the most important thing to him. This was proof that he was more than just a scholarship student who was too poor to be there. He could do things other than academia. 

He had scuffed the palms of his hands on the hard pack earth and found himself picking at the skin that was burned off. It stung slightly, but the rolls of white skin annoyed him and John couldn’t help pulling off the soft skin. After his shower, he hunted through his cupboard for plasters or something to cover the burns. He only had a few plasters that were made for grazed knees so just as he managed to get the plaster to stick, it would come undone and he would have to try again. It was an irritating process of using a combination of his chin and the fingers on the plastered hand to try and sort it out. Just as the plaster had stuck down, his hand had started to bleed and it had become unstuck again.   
"Hello Sherlock." John didn't look up – his left hand was almost plastered.

"John." Sherlock nodded curtly, pulling out a well-used rucksack from under his bed. He began to pack it. John watched him for a moment.   
"What are you doing?" Asked John. He had given up on his mission of fixing his hand and now was awkwardly dabbing his bleeding right hand with the edge of his blue jumper sleeve.  
"I'm going home." John cocked his head.  
"What do you mean 'home."   
"My family's estate is not too far from here, so I go home sometimes to see Redbeard." John shifted. Estate. Sherlock didn't mean a housing estate either.  
"Who is…"   
"My dog. He's not going to be a human, is he."   
"I guess not." He smirked.   
"What did you do to your hands?" Sherlock asked, walking towards John. John shifted over slightly, inviting Sherlock to sit next to him.  
"Rugby try outs. Scraped my hands." Sherlock nodded.  
"Well, a plaster isn't going to stay on you palm, John Watson. I have bandages at home that you can have." John looked at Sherlock.  
"Won't the school have some?"   
"Yes- but they'll charge you £5 for it." John didn't have £5. Sherlock knew that. Sherlock was being nice.   
"Well okay, bring me back some." Sherlock shook his head as he tied his laces.  
"John; I'm inviting you to my house." Jesus, he could be so clueless.  
"Your house? Now?"   
"Yes." John was sure Sherlock wasn't like this with others. He was rude to Anderson and seemed to avoid all human contact. Yet, here he was, being invited back to his room-mates home. Sherlock paused. "Unless you're busy doing...stuff." Sherlock said the word 'stuff' as if it were a poisonous word. John shook his head.  
"No, no. I've got nothing to do. Thank you Sherlock." 

Sherlock had a small smile on his face, but he quickly swallowed it and nodded.

"Good. Well. Get your shoes on. I want to get there before breakfast finishes."   
Sherlock turned out of the door, shouldering his bag. John couldn't help smiling. He changed his jumper and tied his laces, before following Sherlock down the stairs. Sherlock didn’t even look back to John a John caught up to him across the grounds, but the formal invite was enough for John to know Sherlock liked him. It made his stomach buzz in a comforting but unfamiliar way and it dulled the fear of Not Looking Good Enough that was beating its wings in the back of John’s mind.


	8. Chapter 8

The road to Sherlock's house was dusty. Arguably, it was less of a road and more of a track, studded with thick white stones and sandy grains. John watched some birds hop from tree to tree across the track, the shadows cast across the track long and dark, silhouetted against the dark blue sky. Of course, it was private, John expected nothing less from Sherlock. It was odd it was so unkept, but when asked Sherlock replied with ‘surprisingly, multi millionaire’s are very selfish and don’t like helping others.’ his tone dripping with sarcasm. 

"This is nice." John said, smiling into the sun. Sherlock behind him to John.  
"This is my family's land. It goes back generations."  
John nodded as Sherlock gestured to their right, where there were fields and fields of green grass and yellow flowers. Sherlock was a proper rich boy, acres and all. "When I was little there was a big tree house in the woods that father built, but it's not there anymore. Mycroft and I used to play pirates in that house."   
"Mycroft is a good name for a dog." Sherlock paused and shook his head.  
"Mycroft is the name of my brother."   
"Right. Sorry." John cleared his throat and they began to start walking again.   
"It's fine. He's a bit of a bitch sometimes." This made John laugh and Sherlock looked back at him with a grin.

They walked in silence for a while. John imagined what it would be like to have all these riches. An entire woodland to play in, acres of fields and all the money in the world. His little flat on the east side of a tower block didn't compare. The closest thing to wildlife John experience were chavs on a Saturday night.

And somehow, somehow, they were friends despite their differences. John watched Sherlock walk up ahead, his shirt and trousers shifting as he took each step. How much would that be? The shirt looked expensive, sewn with some slightly silky material, and his trousers looked well pressed. The shirt alone was probably more than all of the jumpers John owned. Still, unlike the other boys, Sherlock didn’t seem to think any less of him because of his lack of money. Although they never said anything to his face, John knew that his shoes were too scuffed for a private school and his hair cut a little too short. Sherlock ignored that and, out of everyone, spoke to him. It made John glow a little, no amount of money could buy Sherlock Holmes’ attention and yet he had it. 

"Here we are." Sherlock put his key in the lock to a gate similar to Bullimore's, only this one was iron and black. It was submerged within a bush, the gate marking a dead end to the track. John assumed that this wasn’t a main entrance, that there was one with large, fancy gates and a buzzer. And he was right. 

John followed Sherlock through a tunnel of over bent trees before they opened up into his garden. That alone took John’s breath away. There was a lake on the far side, a bright flower garden and what looked like a pool with hedges marking the perimeter. As they approached a pave slabbed patio Sherlock stopped. 

“My mother. She can be a little…cynical. I just want to let you know.”   
“Oh. Okay.” John was unsure how to reply but Sherlock obviously deemed this valuable enough information that he ought to know it. Sherlock flashed a brief, false, smile, adjusted his shirt and walked through the double French doors. John followed suit. 

The interior was as impressive as the garden, dark polished wooden floors with a long white clothed table running through the centre of the room. There were about 5 high back chairs either side, facing towards oil paintings hung on pastel blue walls. John’s eyes lingered on a portrait of Sherlock (they had caught his eyes perfectly) and a larger, brown haired boy. 

"Missed breakfast." Sherlock mumbled as he ran his fingers through his hair.   
"It's fine." John answered, slightly bewildered by the incredible inferior. Sherlock walked through the door to the left of the end of the room. There was a feminine gasp.

"Sherlock! If you wanted to come home, daddy would have come to get you."   
"Everything's fine, mother." Sherlock answered. John walked across the room and towards the open door, flexing his still raw hand anxiously. "I'm here for a peer. He cut his hands; we need a bandage." John guessed this was when he was meant to walk in. 

"Hello, it's nice to meet you." John said, stepping through the door, stretching out his arm to shake her hand. She was a middle age woman, sat on one of the long sofa’s facing the window, with wrinkles where her smile creased. She shook it, and John had to resist pulling away from the pain.  
"It's nice to meet a friend of Sherlock's." John heard Sherlock mumble friend under his breath in a mocking tone. John shook it off. "Your hands don't look good." She said with a closed mouth smile, turning them over in her own.  
"I scuffed them playing rugby." John replied, noticing the mud amongst the peeled skin.   
"I'll grab some bandages and disinfectant them for you."   
"Honestly, there's no need. I can do them myself."   
"It's no problem..." She paused, waiting for his name.   
"John. John Watson."   
"It's no problem John." Mrs Holmes put down the magazine she was reading onto the sofa and stood up, smoothed her black polka dot dress and walked off. John turned to Sherlock once she left.

"She seems nice." He said.  
"Yes, she does." Sherlock replied, causing a lump to settle in John's throat.   
"Do you not get on?" He asked. Sherlock shrugged and walked behind the piano, which was beside the open door, before pulling out a violin. 

John awkwardly shifted feet whilst Sherlock look at his bow, studying it as he walked towards the centre of the room. It was almost like a picture, the light from the French windows creating a silhouette of the man. The room seemed to perfectly fit Sherlock. Soft blue walls and minimal décor with rich yet simple things surrounding him. 

And when Sherlock played, he felt the world change. There was no other sound but the sound of the violin. He felt the raw emotion in the music and watched Sherlock's body stretch as he played every note. The faster, more intense parts caused Sherlock to lean into the violin, his entire body leaning into the instrument. He felt the emotion in Sherlock, the passion being played on the strings. Sherlock's eyes were closed and his lips were parted in concentration. John and the rest of the world no longer existed.

Just as Sherlock finished, Mrs Holmes appeared. She placed the tray that she was carrying on the side table next to the sofa, before beckoning John over with her hand. John sat next to her and gave her his hands. As she gently wiped the mud out of them he winced, but he was more interested in Sherlock.  
After the song had finished, Sherlock paused where he was stood, before turning to put the violin back. John watched his slender frame bend and straighten, his shirt lifting as he did. John could see the knobbles of his spine, which made him swallow anxiously. He pretended to not see anything.

"Bach, organ sonata number 4." Sherlock said as he walked over, pouring himself some tea from the tray his mother set down.   
"It was beautiful." John said. Sherlock shrugged, throwing himself on the other sofa. "Is it all from memory?" John asked.   
"Yes." Sherlock answered, folding his hands behind his head and closing his eyes.  
"How?" Mrs Holmes sighed at that question.  
"Don't get him started, John. He uses his 'mind palace' which I think is pretentious talk for ‘I'm clever.’ He is simply showing off." She laughed. John smiled sheepishly, feeling bad that Sherlock's talents were being ignored. John laughed breathlessly.   
"Well, either way. Very impressive." John cleared his throat as an awkward silence fell across the room. John stared through the windows as Mrs Holmes finished bandaging his hands. John could see the entire village through the window, the view appearing as if from a countryside calendar. He met eyes with Sherlock who raised his eyebrows a little in exasperation.

"Well, Mother, I need to get some books from my room." Sherlock said as soon as she had put down roll of bandages. Mrs Holmes looked up to Sherlock and then to John. After a moment she smiled and nodded. Sherlock gestured to John for him to stand.  
"Thank you for fixing my hands Mrs Holmes." John said as he stood.  
"No problem, John." She replied.  
"Come along John." Sherlock called, irritated, and John followed.

\--

The stairway to Sherlock's upstairs was as John imagined it: spiral and made of oak wood. There was a large chandelier down the centre of the stairs, which John caught himself staring at with his mouth agape and tiny detailed designs on the banister that followed the case. As they walked up the stairs John glanced at the many pictures that lined the walls, a combination of paintings and prints. At the top of the stairs was a long corridor with 5 doors on each side, a window at its end.  
Sherlock's room was the one closest to the window, which overlooked the lake and the Holmes’ land. There was a key for this room as well. 

"Stay here." Sherlock told John before going in. He was obviously very secretive. John nodded and paced the corridor, feeling for the rug under his feet. After a while John settled on leaning on the table under the window. Sherlock had only been in the room for a few moments when there was a loud crash from inside.

"Sherlock, are you okay?" John called, moving towards the door. There came no reply so John knocked twice. Again, Sherlock didn't answer so John pushed open his door.

One of Sherlock's shelves had collapsed and was hanging off the wall. It was only one side, so all the objects had slid off the shelf and onto the floor. Sherlock was on his hands and knees picking the objects up and putting them on his double bed.

"You alright?" John asked. Sherlock looked up and nodded.  
"The shelves fallen off the wall."  
"I can see that." Responded John, crouching next to Sherlock to help pick up the objects.   
"I asked you to stay outside." Sherlock said flatly, picking a heavy dictionary off the floor.   
"Yes, but I thought you were hurt." John knelt and picked up a small box. He recognised its name and inscription immediately and immediately knew he shouldn’t have picked it up. Sherlock watched John read and, when he looked up and met Sherlock’s eyes, they seemed to be filled with anger.   
"Well I'm not." John took that as Sherlock wanting him to leave.  
"I'll be outside."   
"Good." Sherlock replied and slammed the door.

—

The walk back to school was mostly silent. Sherlock stared into the distance as they walked, his face showing little emotion. If John were to guess, he would say that Sherlock was upset. John wondered if it was because of Sherlock’s mother, the pill box or the collapse of one of his shelves that had put him in such a sour mood but either way, Sherlock was not happy. 

They'd stayed at the Holmes estate for only an hour after that. After Sherlock had fixed the shelf he walked straight past John and down the stairs. John had quickly followed, bemused over the sudden silent treatment. Mrs Holmes announced she had made lunch and they ate on the patio that overlooked the grounds. John ate silently, listening to Sherlock and Mrs Holmes speak. It was clear that they didn't get on, Sherlock with his mother more than his mother with Sherlock. Sherlock’s entire body faced away from her, arched towards the lake. John sat alone in his own seat, the one furthest from the round table that the food was on. It was interesting to see Sherlock with his mother, he was a different type of arsehole around her to the arsehole he was around John. They were discussing something about Mycroft and an organisation.

"Myc won't be back this year either; he's doing some form of internship." His mother said in a proud yet tired tone. Clearly the Holmes' weren't often home at the same time.   
"Really? That's good." Sherlock sarcastically replied, pouring himself some juice.  
"I don't know why you're so bitter, Sherlock. Your brother is doing things with his life. You should be proud of him." Sherlock laughed.  
"Sorry I'm not as successful as Mycroft yet, Mother."  
"That's not what I'm saying, you know that."   
"Sure." There was an awkward pause. John watched the ducks on the water, his ears burning.   
"I'm just impressed with everything he's done. Not even a year out of university and he's already found himself success." Mrs Holmes lifted her glass of bucks fizz to her lips, smiling at John, who sheepishly smiled back. It seemed as though this was being said for John’s benefit. " I just hope you can do the same." 

This, of course, was for Sherlock. John wasn't sure whether it was the way she said it, or if Mrs Holmes really was being rude, but Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. When he opened them, there was a slightly colder version of the same mask on his face.  
When they returned to the dorm, Sherlock unpacked his bag and left the room, giving John no indication of where he was going. Then again, why should he? Sherlock made it clear they weren't friends. They were peers. Room Peers. 

John wondered why that thought bothered him so much, the thought of them not being friends. Perhaps he thought that this school would be different. Here he would make lifelong friends. So far, he'd befriended Greg and Mike and maybe Philip. John inferred that most people didn't like Philip, so he decided that he ought to keep away from him. Besides, he seemed like a bit of a twat.

But John wanted to be Sherlock's friend God damn it. Just as he thought he was reaching him, becoming close with the man, Sherlock would do something or say something that made John think different. 

It made him frustrated. John couldn’t help but think too the look of his back earlier in the day. John could have counted the knobbles on it if he wanted to. But perhaps he was being over dramatic, over sensitive. John had a habit of doing that, Harry had said. He needed to let go of the past, move on with what happened. John struggled with it where Harry did not, and he didn’t understand why. He had been no more than 10 years old when his parents got divorced and everything unravelled, and yet over 5 years later, he couldn’t forget about it. He kneaded his fists into his eyes. And now he was worrying about Sherlock Holmes, who didn’t care much for him. It was a stupid habit he had fallen into. ‘You can’t be friends with everyone, John.’ His mother had said. And yet here he was, determined to befriend Sherlock Holmes.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello im alive  
> im just real sad  
> lol

Wednesday morning was history, which was another subject John shared with Sherlock. He'd got used to the routine by now. Wake up silently and get changed for food in silence. John would go down to breakfast and, when he returned, Sherlock would be reading, already dressed in his uniform. Sherlock would never eat with him, arguing that it was too much effort in the early in the morning to make himself toast. To John, it was an excuse, but he never argued with him. Sherlock would then leave to go and smoke and, whilst he was gone, John would get into his uniform. Then, when Sherlock returned, John would wait for Sherlock to pick up his bag before they'd walk to their lesson. If they had separate classes, then Sherlock would go to where ever he needed to be and wouldn’t be seen until late evening most days. This routine was done in relative silence, the only speech would be if Sherlock wanted a pen, or if John was asking for a cup of tea.  
The silence didn't upset John exactly. It wasn't an angry silence. It just made him feel uncomfortable. Had he done something to upset him? No, of course not. He was just difficult, like Greg said. Somehow, that made John feel worse though. Perhaps it was because of the pill box. Then again, it was not his fault. Moreover, John could plead ignorance if Sherlock asked him if he knew what they were. He still felt bad though, but it had been an accident. John just desperately wanted to get through to Sherlock but every attempt seemed to fail.

They were walking together now towards the history department, that was on the right side of the main building. It would be their 4th history lesson. John didn't particularly enjoy the subject, but he was good at it. It was just essay writing about dead people.

"There will be a trip to Brighton in two weeks time to study the castles and other buildings made along the coast to support your findings for coursework.” Their teacher said. John and Sherlock sat next to each other but, as Sherlock was not talking to John, they worked in utter silence. John didn’t mind so much that Sherlock was silent, but he wished he wouldn’t sit next to him. It put John on edge. “It will be an overnight stay at a local hostel, and we will be leaving at midday the next day. Money must be payed to the school by next Monday. Any questions, do not hesitate to contact me." John saw Sherlock look at him out of his peripheries, he sighed, before looking at the front. Why did Sherlock keep looking at him? 

He leant back in his chair, his eyes scanning the back of Sherlock's head. He was bent, the lumps of his spine showing through his shirt, writing quickly. The visibility of his spine made John feel uneasy but he shook his head. Sherlock was not of his concern.John glanced across the rest of the classroom, all his peers bent too in concentration. There was sunshine coming in from the window to Sherlock's left, illuminating Sherlock's left side. His skin looked almost translucent and, if he were to squint, John was sure he would see the blood pulsing through Sherlock's veins. 

"John, have you done chapter 3." Sherlock asked, sitting up. His eyes caught the sunlight, and they suddenly became a translucent bluey green. They were stunning. John blushed at the idea that he called Sherlock's eyes stunning. "John?" Sherlock did not drop John's gaze. He cleared his throat.  
"Sorry. No. I haven't." He mumbled. Sherlock nodded.  
"Well, you can copy my notes if you want." John lent forward, adjusting himself on his seat so he was sitting slightly away from Sherlock. He looked quickly at his page and nodded.  
"Sure. Thank you."  
"No problem, John." John lent across the table to pull Sherlock's book closer to his own, but brushed Sherlock's arm as he did so. John jerked back quickly and looked up to see Sherlock looking up at him with a look of bewilderment on his face. John swallowed and laughed airily before bending down to begin writing. He felt Sherlock move slightly away from him and a rock settled in his stomach. Get your shit together, John.

——————-

That evening, both boys were sat at their respective desks, working away at the work that Mr McGowan, their history teacher, had set. There was a lot of it, but it had to be done in order to go on the trip. 

Sherlock hadn't mentioned it, but John knew Sherlock wanted him to sit with him on the train there. There was no one else in the class that John knew, so it would have been a yes, but he would have liked the freedom to sit with who he wanted. To not feel obligated to protect Sherlock. Protect. Why did he care? They weren't friends after all.  
John slammed his pen on the desk in frustration, causing Sherlock to turn around.

"Are you alright?" He asked. John ran his fingers through his hair, pulling at the roots. He closed his eyes before turning round.  
"I'm fine." He replied. Sherlock shook his head.  
"Something is bothering you. What is it?" John had to suppress a laugh. Sherlock spoke so robotically. Clearly he didn't often deal with emotions.  
"No. It's nothing." Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh.  
"Why won't you tell me?" John shrugged and Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You tell me things about you. Emotions. What has upset you so deeply that you can't even talk to me, the only one you ever speak to." John tried to protest that he did in fact speak to other people but Sherlock began speaking again. "Unless it's about me." John spluttered.  
"Why would I be upset over you." He retorted. Sherlock shook his head.  
"I don't know, John." He found that he liked it when Sherlock said his name, it made his chest swell with warmth. John paused and sighed.  
"It upsets me that you don't think we're friends." Sherlock threw John a confused looked before laughing mockingly.  
"Really John?" He said sarcastically. John frowned at Sherlock's reaction.  
"Yes." Sherlock stood up and walked to his bed, lying down.  
"I don't have friends, John." Was all Sherlock replied.  
"What the hell do you mean?"  
"Alone is what I have."  
"Then what am I?" John asked angrily. The words came out sharp and violent and John's throat stung from the force. He tried to suppress the heat building in his throat, but he began to feel his face getting flushed. Sherlock paused, his eyes confused.  
"My roommate? I don't know." Sherlock replied, slightly bewildered. John stood up.  
"Okay. Fine." He put his shoes on angrily and picked up his dorm key.  
"I didn't realise it bothered you so much?" The taller man retorted.  
"It's fine." John replied, opening the dorm room door.  
"John? What’s wrong?" Sherlock responded, moving round to watch John pull down his jumper sleeves and slam the door. 

\- 

The walk across the grounds allowed John to clear his head, so when he entered the Sixth form house he was almost calm. It was a common room for all the students to share. And by that it meant it was the local student drinking place. Although none of the lower sixth students could legally drink, that didn’t stop them, and it seemed the school was getting paid too much money to care.

The inside was a bar, thedark stained wood scratched from chairs being dragged across it, and the far wall had a hatch in it, seemingly being used to serve drinks. Even though it wasn’t a huge space, lots of students could fit in there, John had been told, so many parties had been thrown.

When he opened the door, John was hit by the scent of cigerettes and booze. Inside were about 10 students and, in the furthest corner, sat Greg, Mike and one other person, all hunched around a small table. Mike was the first to see John and becond him over with a smile and waving hand. They were all sitting on a mismatching wooden chairs that wobbled on the uneven floor.

“John! I almost didn’t recognise you.” Mike laughed as he shuffled round the table to let John move a chair beside them.  
“What do you mean?” John asked, looking up at his smiling friends and… Anderson.  
“We haven’t seen you since you decided to become Sherlock’s friend.” Greg remarked, adding to the banter.  
“I didn’t realise he could have friends.” Mike returned. John felt himself flush.  
“We’re not friends.” John replied, smiling with straight lips and distracting his hands with a paper coaster on the table.  
“What is he then? Your fuck buddy? Because you’re spending way too much time together not to be friends.” Anderson added. Silence. John sighed.  
“God no. I’m not gay or anything. We’re just room mates.” He looked up at Anderson, who seemed internally jovial at this news.  
“Anderson, go and get John a drink” Mike said suddenly not look to the other man. The way Mike was looking at him put a heavy weight in his stomach.  
“Why me?” Anderson dramatically asked. It was clear he hadn’t been invited and was just sat with them, he was trying too hard to fit in.  
“Just do it.” He stood up, grumbling as he did, and walked over to the hatch. Suddenly Mike sounded serious.

“John, it’s okay if you and Sherlock are dating or whatever.” Before John could argue, Mike continued. “You just need to keep it private. They’ll kick you both out if they think anything’s going on. They’ve done it before.” John was dumbfounded.  
“What the fuck? We’re not… Whatever. But Jesus Christ” Mike and Greg looked to each other.  
“Just keep it in mind.”  
“I will.” John paused. “Thank you.”  
“Well, we’re your mates.” Greg said. “We want you to be happy y’know.”  
“Yes…well, thanks.” John mumbled, watching Anderson as he glanced to their table occasionally. “But we’re not going out. I’m not into…men. I’m just trying to make friends with him.” Greg nodded.  
“As long as you’re okay.” Greg replied. “Anderson you fucking wipe, Mike didn’t mean water.” He shouted at the other Man as he fumbled past the chairs with a pint of water in his hand.

\--- 

When he returned to the dorm, Sherlock was gone. John didn’t know where and he didn’t particularly care. He knew he acted irrationally and he should apologise, but right now John couldn’t even bare to think of looking at Sherlock, let alone speaking to him.

He flicked his shoes off, got changed and stared bleary eyed into the darkness. From the comfort of his bed, everything seemed distanced from him, as if it were someone else. Because in reality, what was happening with Sherlock was nothing more than teenage girl drama. But for some reason, it put John on edge. He recognised it somehow. Like a dream he was trying to remember. For some reason, he needed to protect Sherlock. Make sure he was safe. 

Sherlock must have come in at an early hour, because when John awoke Sherlock was in his bed. Instead of waking him like normal, however, John dressed quickly and left, hardly able to stand being near him out of fear of crying for no particular reason. As if Sherlock’s very existence made him feel knotted.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: ALLUDING TO EATING DISORDER BEHAVIOUR
> 
> i aim to post TW at the beginning of all chapters that may have potentially triggering content. i will always specify whether it is 
> 
> \- graphic -> described in detail  
> \- references to -> referencing behaviours within character dialogue that could be triggering  
> \- alluding -> elements of content that can be inferred to be triggering. 
> 
> as well as what it is a trigger for. stay safe, stay well and please look after your mental health <3

The next few days were silent. John found he couldn't even look at Sherlock without a twist forming in his stomach. It was anxiety of waiting to apologise, but there was never a right moment. Sherlock would not speak to John in their shared lessons, and in the evenings Sherlock would not return to the dorm. He assumed he was staying at home and walking to school. Then again, there were days when he didn't see Sherlock at all. There was something else to the knot too. When John looked at Sherlock, he felt physically sick with words he wish he could say. But even John was not sure what they were. 

Often, in the evenings, John would gaze out the shared window in their dorm. It overlooked the countryside and, when the sun set, it would dance red between the trees before winking away. He liked the view, the peace. It allowed him to think. In those moments of serenity, John still could not avoid it. Somehow, it all came back to Sherlock.   
He couldn't fancy him. That would make him gay and John wasn't gay. He'd had girlfriends in the past. They hadn't lasted more than a couple months and even then, anything of the sexual nature seemed to un-nerve him quite a bit. Women were pretty, John liked their smiles, but the thought of what was underneath made him feel almost sick. Sherlock, however, was different. He didn’t smile, he wasn’t soft. He was mysterious and almost untouchable. But it was just Sherlock, no other man, so it meant he could be gay. John was trying to figure him out, that was all.   
At night, whilst wishing himself to sleep alone in the dorm room, John was reminded of the nagging sensation in the back of his head. Perhaps, he could like men and women. But that thought made John feel sick too so he ignored it. Not in the same sickness that came with thinking of women sexually, but an almost anxiety that perhaps that was true.   
No, he’d reassure himself each time, listening to the voices of his peers muffled through the walls. He liked girls. Sherlock was just quite feminine, that's all, and eccentric. And complicated. And John wanted to work him out. Besides, Sherlock never said he was gay, but then Sherlock said hardly anything at all concerning himself. All John knew about Sherlock’s personal life was that he was rich (obvious) and took pills. That was all. 

Mike had told him once that Sherlock often went days without talking, and that seemed true enough. Did he expect Sherlock to tell him if he were? Did he expect Sherlock to stride in through the door with a Freddie Mercury esc moustache and say   
"John, I am a homosexual. I like men." And what if he did? What would John do?   
He threw himself onto his bed, beating his head against his mattress in pure desperation. Why was he like this? What if other people found out? Greg and Mike had made it clear that the school wouldn’t accept it so even if Sherlock was interested in him romantically, what could they do?   
Anything, anything, anything else to be true except from the obvious. 

Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock. Pretty Sherlock with black curly hair who could play the violin from memory and do history and science. Sherlock who looked good in uniform. Sherlock who smelt of smoke and books and something else. Something so Sherlock than John was sure that he would find it no where else but on him. He wanted to be enveloped in Sherlock's scent, by Sherlock's arms, by Sherlock's body. But not in a weird way. Not in a way that would get him kicked out of the school. In a way that meant he got to be close with him, watch Sherlock smile and listen to laughter swell in his chest in that way that made John giddy. Be comfortable next to him.

Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock.

And when John slept Sherlock was in his dreams. Sweet and tender and everything he wanted it to be. 

And when he woke, Sherlock was there, sitting on the other bed watching him.  
Sherlock was there.  
John sat bolt upright.   
"When did you get back?" He asked, suddenly feeling very awake.   
"Only about 15 minutes ago. You were smiling when you were asleep." John laughed nervously, running his hand through his bed hair.  
"Where have you been the last 2 days?" Sherlock shrugged and lay down on his bed.  
He was skinnier than John remembered, and looked rougher. He swallowed.  
"Have you been taking your tablets?" John asked simply. The apology could wait, this seemed more important. Sherlock didn’t flinch, he knew exactly what he was talking about.   
"No." Sherlock replied, turning on his side to face the wall.  
"Sherlock..."   
"You don't have to baby me John." Sherlock replied. John opened his mouth to speak, but decided against it. Now was not the time to cause another argument.   
"Well, I'm going to. Where are they."   
"In my bag." He replied monotonously. John crouched down under Sherlock's bed and retrieved his rucksack. He dug around inside till he found a pill box. It was at the bottom, covered by clothes and books. They rattled loudly, clearly untaken for quite some time. John passed Sherlock the bottle of water on his night-stand and box of pills and watched him take them. Sherlock hesitated for a moment, before pressing one out of their silver wrapping and downing it with a swig of water, rolling his eyes as he did so.  
It was an eerily familiar experience, watching Sherlock take pills. John was sure he'd watched his mother do the same, although Harry had told him she never took medication, although he knew this was nonsense – she wanted to paint her out to be more stable than she truly was. He remembered her half starving herself because she couldn't do it, bring herself to eat. 

"I just don't know what to do, Johnny." She said. She had always called John ‘Johnny’, she was the only one who did. He was glad of it, it made him feel all the more special and as though Johnny existed simply for her. John was sitting on the sticky carpet of their old flat, before the move. It had always been unkept, John seemed to remember the curtains always being drawn during the day not to attract attention, his mother had said. The TV flashing static. Her hands were skinny, the tendons showing through the flesh, and her eyes were set into her skull with large black rings under them. John had smiled, unsure what to say.   
"Would you like some tea, mummy? Tea makes me feel happy." He had said. He remembered her smiling at him.  
"Tea doesn't fix everything John, but thank you." 

Now John was watching Sherlock stare into the distance, his hands still holding the bottle of water.  
"Would you like some tea, Sherlock?" John asked, his voice wavering. It took a moment for Sherlock to snap back to reality.  
"Yes, thank you John." John got up and took the bottle and pills off Sherlock, replacing them both at his nightstand. Before he left, Sherlock called John's name.   
"Yes Sherlock?"   
"Thank you for caring." And John knew that really meant 'thank you for being my friend.’  
"Of course. I’m sorry for shouting at you the other day."  
“It’s okay.” They met eyes for a moment and smiled to each other, before John left and shut the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from here there are going to be elements of more triggering content, the further into the story you read, the more heavy it will become. just wanted to give you all a heads up. also thank you for the comments, i see them all and i really appreciate all your support. <3


	11. Chapter 11

John and Sherlock were on speaking terms again, which was as good. But it didn't stop John from feeling a bit sad around Sherlock. He spent all his time around his now verified friend, but it still wasn't enough. He wished he could make Sherlock feel okay somehow without the need of medication. He wished he could do something to make him feel as if he were okay. But he didn't. It was an eerily familiar yearn but John pretended not to feel it. Sherlock was talking more now, a surprising contrast to only days before when the atmosphere was frosty. Even if it was a passing remark, Sherlock seemed to want to be around John, rather than the otherway round, and this made John feel slightly more content with their friendship. Sometimes he would join John for breakfast and would always eat dinner with him. This was another positive change.

John had made it onto the rugby team as a reserve, which was better than nothing at all. The PE teacher had come to find John himself and put his hand on his shoulder.   
"Well played, Watson." He said.

John would only need to go to a practise once every other week and then twice a week during match months. It seemed pretty low commitment, which made John glad he was only a reserve. He'd done okay in his chemistry exam, but knew that he needed to revise more to improve. He couldn't risk losing the scholarship. He'd been given the school's rugby shirt, which was black and burgundy horizontal stripes. On the back was WATSON in white capitals. He showed it to Sherlock, who thought it looked 'very nice.' 

Sherlock seemed to have a warmed to John a little more. He had brought his violin back to the dorm, which at first was well received by John and the others in his dorm but, but the end of the week, everyone was sick of it. Sherlock had the had the habit of playing the violin in the middle of the night. Almost every night, around 2 am, John would hear the almost silent padding of Sherlock’s feet across the dorm floor before some form of sad classical music started. It really was quite inconsiderate so Sherlock was quickly told to either play outside or not at all. Consequently, 2am violin playing now meant that John had to be awake to let Sherlock back into the dorm house. Although it annoyed him to have to wake up in the middle of the night, the sound of violin and the view of the school at night made it almost worth it. It made John feel as though he was dreaming.   
Tonight, Sherlock had started playing earlier. It was a Friday, so many of their peers wouldn’t be in bed until the early hours. For Sherlock, this meant inside violin playing. Although it was barely 9 o’clock, he was already playing a particularly sorrowful melody. He would stop occasionally and replay the phrase he had just played, before continuing. John realised it was because he was writing the music as he went, which made John’s head spin. He could only dream of being that talented. He couldn’t help but imagine what was going in his head, trying to piece together the meaning of the music somewhere into real life.  
He was pacing back and forth, dramatically playing his song. John watched. He had been working, but gave up 20 minutes ago. Once Sherlock started, John didn't know when he'd stop so it was impossible to work even if he had wanted to. Sherlock an incredible musician, and so John saw it as a privilege to watch him play.  
The faster Sherlock paced, the more anxious he became. The music became erratic, his bow striking the air with agitation. John watched, hoping that Sherlock would run himself out, but the boy was seemingly stuck between 3 notes, each a semitone down from each other. The noise wasn’t awful, but the longer it went on the more it seemed to drill into John’s brain.   
Just as Sherlock was pacing in the direction of the door, John stood up and placed his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. This made him jump and drop his bow with a clatter. It was almost as if Sherlock had been stunned. Before he could react, John bent down to pick it up before handing it to Sherlock. 

They stood in silence for a moment, John's hand on Sherlock's shoulder, looking each other deep in the eye. Sherlock had his bow in his right hand his violin in his left, holding them both rigidly at his side, his glare intense, the atmosphere suddenly very different to what it was before. They held each others gaze, some un-nameable emotion, barely visible, passing over Sherlock’s face. 

"I think it's a good idea if you go to bed." Said John clearing his throat. For some reason, Sherlock’s eyes seemed to stir something in him. Sherlock nodded, hurriedly placing his bow back in its case and lying down, facing the wall. John watched his friend for a moment, the way he was curled in a ball, before slipping into his own bed and switching the light off to go to sleep.

Sherlock himself lay on his back in bed, facing the ceiling. To his right lay his sleeping dorm mate, who sighed gently as he slept. How long had he been staring for? 3 hours? Sherlock resisted rolling over to look at John in the dark. He knew there was no chance he was awake, yet there was a niggling of fear that John would see him. How would he explain that?

Sherlock steepled his fingers. Why was he so interested in John? Sherlock guessed it was because he was the first normal boy he'd met at this school. From a working-class background, polite, not confident, but brave somehow. It was unusual, to have a person more complicated and… different to the normal mummy’s boys at this school. Sherlock sighed, disgusted by his own intense fixation on the boy. And he was smart. God he was. Smart, in the normal sense of the word. In a quiet way. Sherlock noticed that John would never speak about his grades, even when Mike and Gavin were gloating about them, but in all lessons was achieving A’s. Sherlock respected him more for that. He was emotionally intelligent too. He never asked about the pills, he didn’t need to. John knew, somehow. Sherlock didn’t know enough about him to deduce why. He huffed, frustrated at his own inability. 

John made Sherlock happier somehow. It was nice to know someone cared about him. Cared enough to ensure he looked after himself. Or is that normal behaviour? Sherlock shook his head, he wouldn't know, he didn't have friends. There was tinge of guilt in his stomach. He wished he told John when he was leaving, the outburst from earlier in the week showed it made him anxious, but Sherlock worked off his own thought track. Talking to John would slow him down to much, he was sure John would understand that.

John wasn't a friend. Friend seemed too dull a word. John was interesting in the way nobody else was. He seemed to be a too complex just to be a friend, somehow, and Sherlock was determined to discover why John mattered and why the boy was so diligent in supporting Sherlock. Something had happened in John’s life that had changed him forever and Sherlock was determined to find out what made John Watson so protective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im going to try and update as much as i can but im back at work for the first time in months (AHHH) so updates might be a bit slow again!! sorry :( im currently about 5 chapters ahead in writing, so i need to get back on the grind. love to you all <3


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oo they're in brighton babyyyyyyy

The Wednesday was the day of the Brighton trip. John had eagerly awaited it all week. Partly because it meant he could miss out on the biology exam that he’d been set but also because it would be a return to reality. Bullimore was nice, but it was so far from what he knew that John felt as though he were dreaming. Brighton was somewhere John had visited a few times with his family, and concrete and harsh brick buildings were something he welcomed.  
The night before, John had packed a small bag, containing books and a notepad for his coursework. He also packed a jumper, just in case. Although they were staying overnight, John didn’t feel the need to pack pyjamas, he would sleep in his day clothes. When they awoke the Wednesday morning, John donned a white and mustard striped top and a pair of washed out blue jeans. Sherlock, on the other hand, work attire that still seemed formal. A white button shirt, which had been undone by a few button, and a pair of grey trousers 

"Do you really think that that's good beach wear?" John asked as Sherlock was tying a pair of black shoes. Sherlock looked up at John, scanning his outfit, before looking at his own.  
"Yes." He replied, straightening his shirt. John put his hand to his face and shook his head.  
"Here, pass me one of your t-shirt's?"   
"Why"   
"Because I think you'll get your shirt wet. Come on." Sherlock hesitated, glancing down at John's outstretched hand before complying. He dug in his draw and pulled out a black polo top. John took it and folded it into his bag, before shouldering it. "What about your shoes?"   
"They'll live." Sherlock replied and John shrugged.  
"Up to you." 

\- - - -

The local train station was just passed the local town, a 30 minuet bus journey in one of Bullimore’s on site mini-buses. Of course, they weren’t like the regular blue ones with sliding doors that John had been used to. They were black and sleek with tinted windows and thick leather seats.   
“How come we’re not driving down to Brighton?” John asked as the ignition rumbled the body of the bus. 

“Maybe they don’t want to pay for fuel.” Sherlock replied, adjusting himself slightly in his seat. “Or perhaps they fear the windows will be smashed in a car park.” John shook his head.  
“Ridiculous.” He remark. Sherlock shrugged.   
“These people have no concept of money, John. Anyone lower are hooligans and they see themselves as the ruling class.” John noticed Sherlock used ‘these people’ as if he didn’t live in a literal mansion. It made John want to laugh, Sherlock didn’t have any proper concept of money either, but at least he was almost aware of the strain that a lack of assets caused John. 

When they arrived at the station, John felt as though he’d stepped into a completely different universe. The classic South Eastern station design was familiar, and made John feel a little less distanced from his classmates. They all had to get on the same train, after all. However, John couldn’t help but over hear some of his peers complaints. ‘This station smells like piss.’ One had said as they walked down the stairs to the platform. Another had called it scummy. For John, it was a reminder of the vast separation between himself and his peers.

The train journey took an hour and was mostly silent. There'd been a mix up with tickets on the platform, which led to Sherlock bad mouthing a ticket conductor. 'It's not bad mouthing' he had said 'if it's true. They were his mistakes, not mine.' John couldn't argue with that. Still, their history teacher had given him a verbal warning but, when they were out of earshot, Sherlock remarked that “He thought I was right.”

They sat in a carriage alone. The school was travelling first class, of course, but the first section of the train had been taken, leaving John and Sherlock by themselves. There were other students who needed seats, but they decided to stand with their friends instead of moving carriage. There was no more standing rom in the front carriage, and it seemed pointless to stand if there were seats available. Consequently, Sherlock and John sat alone in their seats, opposite each other, looking out their windows.  
Sherlock seemed happy enough, a small smile resting on his lips. He was drumming his fingertips against his upper leg, watching the countryside pass by. John wanted to ask Sherlock why he was smiling, but decided to simply watch Sherlock contently. 

John had always liked train journey’s. They reminded him of childhood and the summer, and Sherlock’s upbeat exterior seemed to only intensify this feeling. It felt as though they were going on a summer holiday. 

Sherlock felt John's stare and looked over to him, catching his eyes. John resisted glancing down and instead held Sherlock's eyes in his own. Sherlock was sitting directly opposite John and if he lent forward, he could touch him.   
"Are you alright, John?" Sherlock asked after 30 seconds. John cleared his throat and looked down.   
"Yes, I'm fine. I was just zoning out." Sherlock nodded unconvinced and looked back to the window. After a moment, John opened his mouth to speak.  
"So, do you have any other friends?"   
"Do you think I have any other friends?" Sherlock replied. There was no bitterness in his tone. "I don't have friends. I have more enemies than friends."   
"Enemies? Real people don't have enemies." Sherlock smiled and shook his head slightly.   
"I do." Sherlock then turned his entire body towards John, crossing his right leg over his lap. "What do real people have then, Mr Watson?" John smirked, raising an eyebrow. John’s chest ached at the way he said his name.  
"Well, people they like, people they don't like. Boyfriends, girlfriends." Sherlock shrugged.  
"Girlfriends aren't really my area." John tried not to smile at this off the cuff remark and simply stared just pass Sherlock's shoulder.  
"So any boyfriends? Which is fine by the way." He said with a steady voice.  
"I know it's fine." Sherlock snapped back. John held his stare. "John, I think you should know that I'm focused on drawing as little attention to myself as possible. While I'm flattered, I should really let you know I'm not looking for any-" John cleared his throat, cutting Sherlock off.  
"No...no I'm not asking. No. I'm just saying it's fine. It's all fine." John swallowed the lump in his throat. His face felt flushed with embarrassment, but believed he had not been too obvious.  
"Good." Sherlock replied quickly, turning back towards the window. It’s Sherlock Holmes, of course it was obvious, John cursed himself.

————-

Idiot. Stupid. John kept his head down as he walked through the crowd. He shouldn't have said anything. Sherlock hadn't said he was straight either, but John wished he would. Then at least he’d know. But what would that change? Sherlock was to John's right, leading them through the crowd as he could see over the tourists heads. They hadn't looked at each other since they left the train and John firmly believed he would never look at him again.

As they tail gaited the rest of the class, John wondered if Sherlock thought he was hitting on him. From his answer, it must have seemed as though he thought John was, which made John want to cry. It was pure curiosity, nothing more, and now John had ruined what could have been a potentially good friendship. 

They had the rest of the day to study the landscape, looking for castles or anything that looked remotely historical. John wasn't in the mood to do anything with Sherlock and the thought of having to share data and then sleep in the same room make him want to die. 

"Here's something." Sherlock called to John, who was unconsciously staring out to sea, perhaps wanting to drown himself in it. "John!" He turned around and walked over to Sherlock, who was standing by a lump of aged grey stone. They were on some grassy knoll overlooking the impressively blue sea. Their teacher had told them to be at the hostel by 9 pm so until then they had free reign to do as they please. They needed to collect data and were told they could ‘look around the shopping outlet’ as long as they could carry things they bought themselves.   
"Sorry, what am I looking at?" John asked flippantly, he wasn't in the mood for looking at rock. Sherlock paused, slightly taken aback by John’s sour attitude.  
"I don't really know." He said and John laughed. They looked up, finding themselves in stitches of laughter the more they looked at the rock. John was holding his sides by the time Sherlock had stopped wheezing beside him. Neither of them were entirely sure what was funny, but that was seemingly what made them laugh more.  
“Have you written anything down, Sherlock?” Sherlock shook his head. The atmosphere had reset, John’s embarrassment from earlier forgotten. “I haven’t either.”  
“You know it’s only 3 o’clock.” Sherlock replied and John groaned in response.  
"You know what Sherlock, fuck this."   
"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, scanning his coursework and glancing back that the stupid rock.  
"Well we can just bullshit our data."   
"What are you suggesting, John." John paused, looking up at the sun which was surprisingly hot for late September.  
"Drinking."


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock Holmes was a good liar, John discovered. He watched his friend lean over the counter of an off license. He was resting his elbows on the counter, his chin balanced on one hand with the other gesturing in the air. The fluorescent tube light reflected white off his hair and John couldn't help but smile. He already felt drunk from anticipation and watching Sherlock flirt effortlessly with the woman behind the till made him giggle.

"Thank you so much darling. Bu-bye." Sherlock picked up the white and blue striped plastic bag and smiled falsely behind him as he pushed the door open to leave. There was a melodic bing bong from inside the shop. John watched the woman behind the counter sigh and smile wistfully in Sherlock's direction.

"What did you say to her Sherlock?" John asked once they were far from the shop. Sherlock smirked.  
"Nothing much. Smiled at her, complimented her, told her that she's worth more than that shop, which isn’t wrong."   
"So, you flirted with her?" John felt himself smile.  
"Yes.” He stated. “And I got an assortment of alcohol, including prosecco, and some ready salted Pringles."   
"Good choice."   
"I thought so. Although I think the prosecco is off brand." They chuckled again and John felt Sherlock glance at him. "I somehow feel that Sour cream and chive pringles are superior."   
"I don't think so. Texas Barbecue." Sherlock stopped.  
"No John. You are completely wrong." John tutted.  
"I am not." Sherlock smiled and John glanced towards the taller boys face. Sherlock caught his eyes but John quickly dropped them.  
John cleared his throat.

“What do you think of Brighton, then?” John asked.   
“There are lots of pride flags.” Sherlock remarked and John nodded. “I saw a club advertising drag queens by the sea front.”   
“Well, Brighton is the gay capital of England, Sherlock. Didn’t you know that?” Sherlock shook his head.   
“It’s quite grey.” John nodded. They turned a corner, walking passed a structure on a green that looked like the kremlin and towards the sea front.  
“New buildings.”  
“I like it.” Sherlock responded, pressing the button on the traffic lights ahead of them. “Feels like a real place.”  
“I know what you mean.” John replied.

————

They had found a sea wall, far from where their class mates would be. It overlooked the rocky beach and the blue ocean that reflected like silver into the sky. John’s short legs swung over the edge, and the drop scared him slightly. Sherlock had handed him a Strongbow, and he nursed it between his hands. The cider was warm, but John didn't mind. Booze was booze and perhaps it being slightly warm made it better.

John watched Sherlock take a long drink before pulling a face of utter disgust and sticking out his tongue.  
"I really don't think this is very good." Sherlock remarked and John chuckled.  
"The more you drink the better it tastes." Which made Sherlock shake his head.   
John looked down at his can, fiddling with the pull ring. They sat in comfortable silence, yet John wanted to say something, anything.  
"How do you know so much about other people?" John asked. Sherlock looked to him.  
"What do you mean?"   
"On my first day you knew those shoes were mine. How?"   
"I told you how." John took a sip.  
"No, I mean how do you do it?"   
"Ah, well." Sherlock looked across the beach. "I just use my eyes." 

There was a woman jogging on the promenade, Sherlock watched her for a moment.   
"What can you tell me about that woman over there?" John followed Sherlock's eyes.   
She had a pink zip up jacket and nylon leggings, with black and pink running shoes. Her hair was pulled back into a blonde ponytail, which bounced as she ran.  
"She's a woman." John responded and Sherlock rolled his eyes.  
"What else? What is she wearing?"   
"Um... Running gear."   
"Which means?"   
"That she is prepared?" Sherlock took out a cigarette out from his trouser pocket and lit it, before taking a drag.  
"It means she's seriously about committing to running. No one invests in equipment unless they're either dedicated to the activity." Sherlock gestured expressively with his cigarette, running his hand through his hair as he did so.  
"Right." Of course. Sherlock must have thought John was an idiot. "Her stuff looks new." John felt Sherlock nod. "Which means that she's just started running."   
"And when she runs she doesn't use her arms."   
"And that." John added. Sherlock smiled quickly before taking a long drag, flicking the ash into the air.  
“It is simply observation and assumption. Human nature is only unpredictable to a certain degree. After a while, everyone’s behaviours are similar.”  
“Like?”   
“Like repeition of clothing. Most people wear one particular style or item, regardless of the outfit. You always wear, or carry jumpers.”  
“Right.”  
“Which means you are either easily cold, or it is a comfort item. On the first day you were wearing a jumper when I entered the room, it was a hot day and the summer. Thus, your jumpers are a comfort item.” John nodded.   
“Impressive.”   
“Thank you. Now we ask, why are they a comfort item? Knitting has connotations to the maternal side. But also soft objects are good anxiety preventors, one feels protected. I am yet to decide whether you wear them for some connection to a maternal force in your life, a grandmother or your own mother, or whether it is to easy your anxiety. I see you pull the sleeves over your hands sometimes when you’re uncomfortable, but also your lack of discussion of your family, particularly your mother, allows me to believe something may have happened. Forgive me, John, but you don’t appear to be your father’s son.” John shrugged. “So, I’m right. I’m sorry, whatever it was.”  
“It’s fine, Sherlock.” John responded; his throat suddenly thick. “Still very impressive.” Sherlock nodded and John noticed how he didn’t push it any further.  
"Pass me another cider." The taller boy said and, when he reached across to take it out of John’s hand, he couldn’t help but notice that Sherlock lent on his shoulder a little bit, seemingly purposeful. A sign of solidarity.

————

By about 6 o clock, the sun was steadily setting. Any thought of schoolwork was forgotten a long time ago and, even if he had wanted to do it, Sherlock was in no position to even form coherent sentences, let alone write paragraphs of work. For once, John tried to ignore the insect like anxiety in the back of head that told him he was going to fail his class and walked with Sherlock down the beach. 

It seemed as though the alcohol had hit Sherlock a lot harder than it had John. After he started on the glass bottle of gin, he was giggling and now, echo falls bottle in hand, Sherlock was stumbling as he went. Still, John supported the idea of watching the sunset on the pier. Drinking booze and watching the sunset seemed to be the most attainable thing on his bucket list, so John was going to take the opportunity when he saw it.

John had said very little, watching with fascination as his friend spoke rapidly about anything and everything.

"And that's how I know that David Cameron in year 11 is actually from Cameroon. Very interesting when you think about it." Sherlock sat down heavily, his legs handing over the edge of the pier, facing towards the sunset. It was surprisingly quiet. John guessed people were taking photos of the impressive sunset from the beach.   
"Do you think that's safe?" John asked. He wasn't partially sober himself, but in a better state than Sherlock. Sherlock turned to look at him.  
"Bollocks to what's safe John! What's the point in always being safe? You don't get to live!" He stood up suddenly and gestured widely, stumbling slightly at the power of his own arms. John grabbed him by his arm and sat him down. "This is living John! Drinking and sunsets and being with people you love." Sherlock paused and took a swig of the echo falls. He then rolled the bottle behind them. It made a clattering sound as it found its home next to one of the barriers. "And the sea. I love the sea. I love the way it smells and the colours. They look like your eyes." Sherlock looked to John, who blushed slightly. "I like your eyes. I like the way they reflect light. Like the sea." Sherlock took the bottle of prosecco, shook it vigorously and popped its cork. Prosecco rained on their laps and the fork flew into the waves. John watched as it floated away. 

"That's nice of you, Sherlock."   
"I am actually a very nice person. Occasionally." John nodded.  
"You're not nice to Anderson."   
"That's because he's a wanker." Sherlock passed the bottle to John and pulled out a cigarette. "Mike and Anderson and the other one.” He paused, accenting his movements with smoke. “Gavin?"  
"Greg."   
"And Greg. They're all wankers. You're not though John. You're competent and nice and you put up with me. That means you're not a wanker."   
"Thank you."   
"No problem. I'm a wanker though. I don't know why you are friends with me. I am a huge penis." Sherlock moved his arms to show John how much of a penis he was, almost punching him in the face. John dodged just in time.   
"I'm friends with you because I like you."   
"Thank you John, you don't know how much that compliment means to me." Even through the slurring words, John could hear Sherlock's genuine tone. "In all honesty, even you speaking   
to me is a compliment." Sherlock moved closer to John, placing his hand on John's thigh for balance. "Sorry."   
"I don't mind." John replied and for once did not feel a burn of regret. Sherlock looked up at him, taking a long inhale from his cig. He watched him blow out the smoke.  
"I'm glad." Sherlock replied softly and leant into kiss him. John turned his body slightly, Sherlock's hand still on his thigh, and gently met his lips.   
It not was a long kiss, their lips meeting for mere seconds. In those seconds though, John felt his entire stomach flip. Sherlock pulled away looking quickly down to the waves.  
“John. I’m sorry.” Sherlock exclaimed. John smiled, suddenly sober.  
“No it’s fine” And Sherlock met his mouth again.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: ALLUDING TO EATING DISORDER BEHAVIOUR

At around 8 o clock the pair decided to head into the old town to get some food. Sherlock was very drunk and occasionally would heave into a bin before continuing to walk. It seemed as though the alcohol had hit him harder than it had he and it meant that John was essentially carrying Sherlock through Brighton’s lanes. It made John wonder how much Sherlock had truly drunk in the past and whether all that champagne consumption had built any resilience. John had been used to the public-school experience, which included drinking hooch and vodka in open fields at the age of 14, students doing A class drugs in lessons and the occasional teacher running a class whilst still drunk. Sherlock’s upbringing, however, had clearly been a very different experience. John wondered if true drinking culture that was so rampant in the city had made its way this far into the countryside. Then again, John could not imagine any of the upper-class boys going to a corner shop and spending the last of their change on 3 for 2 bottles of alcopop. 

“I need to sit down.” Sherlock mumbled as they came to a small circle of shops. They had been walking for about 10 minutes, although by the tone of Sherlock’s voice, it could have been hours. John nodded, aiding Sherlock to one of the soft wooded picnic benches. The taller boy proceeded to place his head on the bench. John found it almost laughable that Sherlock was so easily influenced by alcohol.  
“You alright, Sherlock.” John asked, sitting next to him.  
“Feel a bit sick.” He responded. John sighed at his friend as he surveyed the shops around them. They were all independent, classic beach side buildings with thick word art like font written on the fronts. A chip shop caught his eye named ‘For Cod’s Sake’, the white banner grey with lack of upkeep.  
“Do you want anything?” John asked the boy, who currently had his head between his leg, with a nod of his head..  
“No John, I’m fine.” Sherlock said to the floor. John tutted, knowing that this may be a battle. He was almost tempted to by himself something and not Sherlock, but he knew that Sherlock needed to eat.  
“I’m getting you some chips.” John replied as he stood up from the bench.  
“Please don’t.” The slight desperation in Sherlock’s tone forced John to turn around. He looked up at John with a face that masked a mixture between submission and desperation. John took a step towards Sherlock, his face softening on instinct, the situation familiar.  
“You don’t need to have them all, Sherlock. Just some.” Which made Sherlock groan. “I need you to soak up some that alcohol.” John continued, pretending to ignore the very clear resistance Sherlock was showing and the growing anxiety in the back of his head. He wondered what Sherlock would have done had he been sober. He pauses, waiting for Sherlock to say something else. He did not, so John walked over to the counter, his chest heavy with guilt.  
“Alright lad, what can I get you?” The guy at the counter asked. It was a truck like building, the inside just big enough for one employee, two at a push.  
“Two chips please.” John answered, feeling for the note in his pocket. £2.50 each. He could decide if that was a good deal or not. The man nodded, turning to shovel chips into the yellowed cartons that were sitting on the countertop. John licked his lips anxiously, waiting for the man to ask for payment. He defiantly had a £5 note on him. Even if he didn’t, he could ask Sherlock for money. Sherlock would give him money. After about a minute, the man turned back.  
“That’s 5 quid.” He said, handing John two paper wrapped containers. Immediately John handed him the money. The man smiled. “Do you want salt or vinegar?”  
“Yes, please.” John responded and the man nodded, coating both chips boxes in both salt and vinegar. It only occurred to John that perhaps Sherlock did not want salt nor vinegar, but John suspected that that did not matter. It would be a struggle either way.

After John had paid, he brought the yellow polystyrene cartons back to the table, the scent of hot grease and vinegar soaking through the paper wrap. Silently, John slid Sherlock his portion of chips. He sighed dramatically in response, before slowly unpeeling the edge of the paper layer by layer, his long fingers hesitating at every layer. John watched him open it as he busied himself with his own box. There seemed to be pure force that Sherlock was using to be using to even imagine opening the box itself. To ease the mood, John began to hum, folding the greasy paper over in his hands. Sherlock looked up suddenly.  
“That’s my song, isn’t it?” John blushed a little at Sherlock’s drunken enthusiasm.  
“It is. Yes.” Sherlock looked down at his hands before picking up a chip. John watched him bite it before continuing. “How do you write?” Sherlock took a moment to swallow, gripping the table slightly as he did.  
“I remember it all in my mind palace.” He gestured to his head, not quite as enthusiastically as before. Obviously he was sobering up. “So, I just rewrite sections as I play.” John nodded as he ate. “Plus, basic muscle memory means I instinctually remember finger positions before I remember specific notes.”  
“How does a mind palace work?” This made Sherlock smile and caused John’s heart to beat a little faster.  
“It’s essentially remembering a map of areas in which different information is located. As long as I can remember where the information is in, which room I can find it, nothing can be forgotten.”  
“Amazing.”  
“I know.” Sherlock replied, raising his eyebrows in agreement. John smiled widely.  
“One question though,” Sherlock hummed in reply. “Why a palace?”  
“Why not a palace?” And John laughed.

\---

By the time they had left to return to the hostel, Sherlock was quite a lot more sober than he had been by the pier. He needed less of John to hold him up and, although he continued to heave every now and then, John felt confident that he wasn’t going to throw up on the cobblestone. They were having mostly polite conversation, light and friendly. Sherlock chuckled often, which made John feel a little weak, and Sherlock seemed to have purposefully slowed his stride to match John’s.  
“Do you have any siblings, John?” Sherlock asked as they turned the corner onto the road of the hostel. John nodded.  
“One, Harry.”  
“How old is he?”  
“She’s 22. 23 next week actually.”  
“She.”  
“She.” John repeated and Sherlock nodded, his eyes scanning the horizon. John wanted to ask Sherlock what he was thinking but he was sure that the boy was categorising something. Trying to work something out. If Sherlock asked, John would tell him. Then again, what would be the fun in that?  
Sherlock continued to ask cryptic questions about John’s sister, obviously trying to figure her out and her relation to John.  
“Do you have a close relationship.” Sherlock asked. John shrugged.  
“Fairly, she’s a lot older than me.”  
“Interesting.”  
“Yeah…” John laughed airily as Sherlock hummed in thought.  
“Her relationships. Does she engage in romance?” John almost laughed at the robotic language Sherlock chose.  
“Um, she has a girlfriend.” John said and Sherlock stopped in his tracks. John turned around, confused.  
“Girlfriend? Romantically?”  
“Yes, Sherlock.”  
“And your parents do not mind this?” John cleared his throat.  
“Not much choice. She said that she is accepted for the person that she is or life will be difficult. No ifs or buts. Harry is very stubborn.” Sherlock nodded.  
“So, she is openly homosexual? In your house?”  
“Yes.” Sherlock paused, as if resetting something in his head.  
“And you are not opposed to it either?” That question almost made John openly laugh, but he swallowed it and shook his head. Why would he be? Had Sherlock forgot they had just kissed? “I see.” The boy continued as they walked. 

As they walked the hostel, the silence carried on. Sherlock seemed to be thinking, rearranging, data collecting something in his mind. John signed himself and Sherlock in at the sheet on the front desk before following Sherlock into a room with 4 different sets of bunk beds in them. John sat on the bottom of one bunk and Sherlock the bottom of the bunk opposite. He took up the position of his fingers steepled under his chin, processing deeply. 

John wondered what made Sherlock reassess his mind palace so heavily. Had John truly said anything revolutionary? He didn’t understand Sherlock’s sudden, stark reaction to the news he was not a homophobe. Moreover, he didn’t think Harry being a lesbian was such big news, but then again John had grown up with her lesbianism. Perhaps the idea of being a lesbian really was so foreign and unusual? At John’s old school, there had been plenty of open lesbians, although John was sure the only reason they had been accepted because teenage boys have a strange fixation with the thought of their female classmates fucking each other. At an all-boys school, there were no lesbians (obviously, John) and no open gay couples, although that could have been due to school policy. Had Sherlock never experienced real life gay couples? The thought amused John as he lay down to go to sleep. The fact they had kissed less than 5 hours before and now Sherlock was acting as if homosexuality was a complete alien thing. Somehow, this wasn’t a gay thing. John wouldn’t be able to explain why, but he and Sherlock kissing wasn’t gay.  
“Today was fun” John said to Sherlock after a while. There was some student chatter, but it was otherwise quiet. After a moment, John heard Sherlock breathe in deeply.  
“It was, we should do it again.” He replied, before turning over in his bunk opposite. 

\---

And now, on the train home, Sherlock was not meeting John’s eyes. Instead, he was massaging his temples rather heavily, indicating that he had a rather bad hang over. John, on the other hand, had recovered rather well. He felt a little rough, but still managed to write out the data needed to pass the course. His stomach felt sicker from the sweet cider than the alcohol itself. John wished he didn’t drink like a child. Sherlock, on the other hand, had refused John’s help and so was currently bent over his sheet, occasionally glancing to John, clearly not sure what to write, his mind palace out of action. 

John hadn't mentioned the kiss, nor knew what it meant. Sherlock had been very drunk, as had he, and although Sherlock had seemed to want to kiss him the alcohol probably skewed his judgment. It felt like some hazy dream. He remembered when Harry got a large tattoo on her hip bone of female genitalia in line art after going to Wetherspoons. 

John, however, had meant it when he kissed Sherlock. He meant it even more when his friend lent forward to kiss him again and was sure of his decision when the curly haired lad kissed him with his tongue. Suddenly, the explicit attraction John felt didn’t seem so ridiculous anymore, but he wasn’t sure if Sherlock felt the same. It was more an even footing. John was waiting for Sherlock to say something.

“John.” Sherlock said suddenly. John looked up from his lap. It was the first time Sherlock had spoken to him since the night before.  
“Yes, Sherlock.” John replied simply, looking Sherlock in the eye. He saw him swallow.  
“I’m sorry. For yesterday.”  
“Well.” John cleared his throat. He wasn’t sure what to say. “It’s okay. I-I don’t mind.” He replied, clearing his throat again, and quickly looking down.  
“Right.” Is all Sherlock seemed to say, his voice flat, before the pair fell silent again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello hello hello 
> 
> sorry for not updating for a bit. im gonna do like 3 days of updates and then like 4 of not so i can keep writing. currently at 32k words and counting. in for a thicc fic. i hope you're enjoying it so far? im trying my best lol. it's all planned out, youre in for a ride (if you choose to keep reading.) anyway. thank you for reading up to this point. just hit 800 hit?! wtf?!?!?!?  
> shout out to Samara_W, Ann and Bandwagon. i see your comments. i hope you keep reading.  
> anyway, stay safe and well   
> you are loved   
> <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: ALLUDING TO PAST SELF HARM

The following week, John had training every night of school. There was a match the following Friday, and it seemed as though John was going to be needed on the field after all after one of the boys had broken their wrist at training the week before. He didn’t particularly mind the training; it was nice to be outside and moving around. John hadn’t played proper rugby in years, his technique a little rusty, but he was pleased to feel himself becoming more and more advanced in his movement. However, by night 3 of the training, John’s entire body was aching and sore. Twice, he missed dinner after napping too long whilst revising after training. It seemed that John was in a comatose state, about to pass out at any moment. 

It was on the Thursday, the night before match day, where John felt the worst. His body hurt to move and his brain was cloudy from a lack a sleep. He could barely form coherent sentences and answered most questions with a low huff, his body not yet used to excess movement. That evening, Sherlock decided to intervene.   
John had just come in from training, holding his muddy boots by the laces. Sherlock had asked him if he was okay and John didn’t answer. Instead, he sat on the edge of his bed, hands resting on his knees. 

“John.” Sherlock said quietly, placing the book down. “Are you okay?” There was a pause and a long inhale from John. “John?”  
“Yeah, I’m just tired.”  
“Why don’t you go to sleep?” This made John huff out a laugh loose laugh.   
“I’ve got work to do for tomorrow.” He replied, sighing heavily, running his hands through his hair.  
“Is there much?” Sherlock asked after a moment. John shook his head slowly.  
“No.” He replied, his voice breaking suddenly as he began to cry. Sherlock furrowed his brow, unsure of quite what to do.   
“I could do it if you would like me to.” Sherlock replied. John looked up at him, his eyes slightly red with blurry tears.  
“It’s the chemistry mock exam.” John responded. “I need to finish it.”   
“That’s fine. I’ve done it already.” He said, moving off his bed and towards John’s desk, filtering through the papers on his desk.   
“But I need to do it.” John replied, his voice strained.   
“John, this won’t reflect your abilities if you do it now. Currently, you need to sleep.” John knew Sherlock was right, but something was stopping him from letting him help.  
“What if Huchoo realises it isn’t my work?” John asked with a heavy sigh. Sherlock produced the booklet from John’s desk, flipping through the pages.   
“You’ve done over half of it, John. It’s mostly your work. Please let me do this.” There was a pause from John, who was aggressively scratching his eyebrows. Another interesting nervous tic, Sherlock noted. Sherlock did not wait for a response, and instead put the paper on his desk. John lay back on his bed with a loud sigh.   
“John.”  
“Yes, Sherlock?”   
“Would you like me to make you some tea?” This made John laugh, a little stronger this time. He watched John push himself by his elbows, bleary eyed.   
“Yes. Please. I’d appreciate it.” So, Sherlock stood up, slipped on his slippers, and walked downstairs, leaving John alone.

There was seemingly no one downstairs, which put Sherlock slightly at ease. He didn’t exactly dislike his peers, other than Anderson, but they all lacked intelligence in such a way that made everyday conversation exhausting. Sherlock didn’t have time to waste on pleasantries, which made his friendship with John so much easier. John seemed to also believe that small talk was pointless, which meant Sherlock could sit in his much-needed silence for however long he needed without being disturbed. He filled the kettle, the water splashing against the sleeves of his dressing gown so he rolled up his sleeves and put the kettle on its base to boil. Whilst he waited, Sherlock paced back and forth, the dry sound of his slippers against the wood releasing some of the tension in his head. 

Sherlock did not necessary struggle with human emotions, but he simply found them frustrating. They took too much time to deal with – Sherlock could be doing so much more if his own emotions or others did not exist. Sherlock had mastered the art of blurring his own emotions, allowing the few that they were to settle somewhere in his stomach. This allowed the daytime to be almost emotionless, or at least more controlled. This, of course, meant at night that the daytime emotions suddenly surfaced. The supressed feelings rearing their head amplified. 

Dealing with others emotions, of course, was completely different. Sherlock cared little for how anyone else felt, other than if it directly affected him in getting what he wanted. John, however, was an exception to this rule, and every other one, it seemed. John’s emotions seemed to physically impact Sherlock. Somehow, John’s feelings towards him; from his tone of voice to the words his chose to use had a huge effect on him. It was rather distressing, having some form of reliance on John’s external positivity to bring Sherlock himself some emotional stability. This had never happened before and now that John was upset, Sherlock felt knotted, unsure of what to do. John was complicated, Sherlock knew there were more emotional layers to him, hence the use of the ‘external positivity’ that Sherlock had given him. There was a constant layer of anxiety underneath is positive base line which stemmed from somewhere. Sherlock wanted to know what that was.

“Sherlock.” Said a voice from the doorway behind him. Sherlock turned around, putting his hands behind his back.  
“Anderson.” He replied in an exaggeratedly tired manner, walking back over to the kettle.   
“What are you doing down here?” Anderson asked, walking further into the room. He wore his dressing gown too, the belt trailing on the wooden floor.  
“I’m getting a drink.” Sherlock gestured to the kettle.  
“Would you make me one.”  
“No.” Sherlock got a cup out of the cupboard, put a teabag in and poured the ready-boiled water in the mug. Anderson sat in the highbacked armchair closest to the fireplace. It was empty and cold but the smell of burnt wood still strong.   
“Are you mean to me on purpose?”   
“Yes.” Sherlock pressed out the tea from the bag before putting it in the bin. He didn’t have time for this chit chat with Anderson. John was upstairs crying and Anderson was the last person Sherlock wanted to speak to. He frustrated Sherlock in a way that made Sherlock want to punch him.  
“I don’t understand why. I’ve never done anything to you.” This made Sherlock groan. “Well?”   
“I don’t owe you any form of explanation, Phillip.” Sherlock spat pouring milk into the mug. Anderson laughed emptily, shaking his head at Sherlock. “Leave me alone, Anderson.” Suddenly, Anderson got up and stood in front of the doorway. Sherlock had already began walking towards the doorway and had to stop quickly, the tea sloshing over the cup edge and burning his right arm. Both he and Anderson glancing down.  
“You might want to sort that out.” Anderson’s eyes on his arms. Sherlock dared not look down.  
“I am fine. Now move.” Anderson hesitated for another moment, his eyes still on his arm. Sherlock balled his hand into a fist in frustration. “Anderson.” His eyeline was making him uncomfortable. Finally, he moved out the way, standing next to Sherlock.   
“I’d roll down my sleeves,” He remarked. “if I were you.” Sherlock had to resist punching him and instead took a deep breath.  
“Do you exist solely antagonise me, or do you have other purposes?” Anderson said nothing. He turned around to meet Anderson’s eyes. “I didn’t think so. Let me be. I am none of your concern.” Phillip dropped his gaze and Sherlock turned quickly to go upstairs. 

\--

Inside the dorm room, it seemed as though John had improved. He was in his pyjamas, in bed reading some form of poetry book. Sherlock handed John his tea before sitting on his bed, ruffling his hair aggressively. He didn’t mean for Anderson to get under his skin, but something about him made Sherlock instinctively angry. He ran his hand over the red patch on his arm, the skin warm and tight. 

“What did you do to your arm?” John asked as he sipped his tea. Sherlock kicked off his slippers under his bed.  
“Anderson. I burnt it on the tea.” Sherlock replied, loosely gesturing to John’s mug which he was holding.   
“I see.” Sherlock knew that that was not what John was talking about. “You shouldn’t let him to get to you.”   
“Well yes. I know.” Sherlock paced back and forth, clenching and unclenching his hand.  
“Sherlock.”  
“What John?” Sherlock turned violently towards John, which made him flinch. “Yes?”  
“I’ve got the match tomorrow. I was gonna ask if you wanted to come.” Sherlock stopped pacing, running his hand through his curls.   
“Yes, alright. If you want.” He sat down and sighed.  
“Thank you for the tea.” John said, placing his tea down on the nightstand and leaning to turn off the lamp.   
“It’s no problem, John.” Sherlock replied, walking towards his desk to finish John’s paper. John turned off his lamp, leaving Sherlock’s brain rattling nosily in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this chapter is so short, but the next one is min 5k so please forgive me. take some fluff as an apology


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: ALLUDING TO EATING DISORDER BEHAVIOUR (sherlock is funny about eating but does not explicitly refuse)

John’s match started at 3 pm the next day. It was a friendly match, another private school from not too far away had come to play a test match with their team. Apparently, this match wouldn’t affect the league, whatever that met. John cared little for the league or positions or points, he played for the almost infantile fun he got from the game. However, he knew that for the boys who had been raised throwing a rugby ball, the private school league was important, so John knew to take it seriously. He met Greg and Mike, along with Sherlock, downstairs in the dorm house at 2 o’clock. Greg and Mike were smiling, intrigued with John’s play. He had made first reserve, they had said to each other the night before, so he must be good. Sherlock had agreed to stand with Greg and Mike with little resistance. If they were friends with John, they truly couldn’t be too bad. 

Currently, they seemed to be discussing something to do with football as they walked across the grounds to the sports house by the river. Sherlock cared little for sports; they took up unnecessary space in his brain. But John cared about rugby, so Sherlock had to at least pretend to be interested, that what good friends do, he had been told. 

“We’re thinking of going into town and grabbing food after the game. Will you come?” John asked across the two other boys, who were to Sherlock’s left. Sherlock rubbed his arm self-consciously.  
“Okay.” He replied, watching the sports house come close with every step. There was a sudden pit in his stomach, but he focused on the skyline to force it away. It of course, did not work. The rest of the walk down hill and, as Sherlock was taller than the other boys, he was forced to take smaller steps. It made him feel a little more out of place than normal but Sherlock pushed that down, sentiment like that made him feel worse.

-

The pitch was standard, the lines marked out in white chalk. Mike, Greg and Sherlock were told to stand at the sides of the pitch. It seemed out of all the school, the sports pitch had the least investment. Most of the other private schools that Sherlock had visited for sixth form open day (which had really been pointless as he knew he was going to return to Bullimore) had large and expansive pitches. One school had a small stadium that could seat around 500 pupils, 700 if standing and put Bullimore’s rectangle of overplayed grass to shame. The sports house was nice, it had a gym and badminton courts for out of hours, but even that was inferior. It seemed that sports was the only thing Bullimore did not excessively fund.

Sherlock watched John stretch, his friend looking concentrated in a way he had never seen before. He bent and tucked and jumped and lunged for some minuets, Sherlock’s own body aching at the sight of John. He could tell the shorter boy was nervous, though, he was repeatitvly running his hands down the short sleeves of his jersey, something he did also with his jumpers.   
The coach in the Bullimore colours of burgundy and black called them over, John walking to the huddle of other players, all sporting the same jersey as him, before some low words were said. Sherlock watched the boys nod their heads in agreement and then space out into their positions, John taking the back line. The other team, in a disgusting mix of red and blue, did the same. He didn’t look up at Sherlock, but he could tell John was looking at him.   
“During match season they use the stadium at Jude St. Francis school. It’s weird they’re playing now, I didn’t think October was a good time for rugby.” Mike said, leaning over towards Sherlock and Greg.  
“Well it rained this week, didn’t it. I guess the ground is soft.” Greg replied. Sherlock let out a silent sigh. Boring.  
“I’d hate to play in all that mud. I think I’d rather stay inside.” Just as Sherlock was about to remark about the fact Mike spent too much time inside, there was a whistle and the game started.

Sherlock had never watched a game of rugby before, so he wasn’t quite sure whether John’s team was winning or not. It was mostly silent, other than the occasional shout from one of the boys and the scrape of their boots against the mud. John did not seem to be doing much at the moment other than shout some form of criticism, however, he seemed completely focused on the game. Sherlock couldn’t help but fixate on John. He had his legs bent, arms ready at his side, shuffing from foot to foot, ready to receive the ball. Sherlock thought that this was the most interesting John had ever been. John knew exacly what he was doing, and the way his eyes scanned the pitch made Sherlockwonder what he was thinking. He would never be able to guess, and there was very little that Sherlock did not know, which gave him all the more insentive to watch John, to find out what was happening. He himself only dabbled in tennis once or twice, but he couldn’t see what was so interesting in a ball being hit or, in this case, passed around. Still, John seemed engaged so Sherlock thought he’d give it a go. 

All of a sudden, the ball made its way up to John’s end of the pitch. Quickly, the ball was passed into John’s hands, backwards, it seemed. Sherlock watched run around the outside of the opposition, the ball under his arm, and towards the other back line. It seemed to be going well, the other team trying to catch John, who was surprisingly fast for his height, when out of nowhere a player from Jude St Francis tackled John’s legs. John went flying right but, before he could hit the gorund, he passed the ball backwards to another team member, who picked it up and scored. There was a round of applause from the watchers, and a cheer from Mike. Dumbfounded, Sherlock watched John get up, dust off his now muddy, scuffed knees and run back into position. The tackle had been hard, but John simply shook it off and continued playing. 

“He’s very fast.”Sherlock remarked as the players repositioned.   
“Who? John” Mike asked.   
“Yes.” God, people are so frustrating.  
“He’s a winger. That’s his job.” Greg said, leaning to talk to Sherlock.  
“Still, it’s very impressive.” Sherlock replied, watching John again shout towards the rest of the pitch.   
“Yes, it is.” Greg responded, glancing at Mike who raised his eyebrows. 

\--

After the game, John came out of the sports house, hair wet and arms red from cold and injury. Despite that, he had a large smile on his face, white jumper in hand. His kit had been left with the coach, who was ‘very impressed’ with his performance, and so he wore his day clothes, his jeans rolled and cuffed at his ankles. 

“Well done John!” Mike exclaimed, punching his shoulder in a friendly way.  
“Yeah, great play.” Greg added.  
“Thanks guys.” John replied as they begun to walk up back up the small hill. The plan was to get the school bus to the local pub and grab a drink. Sherlock felt for wallet in his back pocket and sighed when he felt its weight. John slotted next to Sherlock, the four of them walking shoulder to shoulder in comfortable silence. Sherlock could smell John’s shampoo, which smelt of apples, and the familiar rub of his arm on John’s jumper when they walked abreast to each other.

John noticed that Sherlock didn’t say much on the bus, his friend staring off into space as it shifted downhill. Greg and Mike, on the other hand, had not noticed, and continued to talk amongst themselves. John wondered if there was anything wrong with Sherlock but didn’t want to ask whilst with the others, so instead stayed quiet, watching him from behind lowered lids.  
The town was quiet. It was more of a village then a town, the wide, single road that led to the motor way 15 miles away, surrounded by charity shops and independent eateries. The pavemnts were cobbled with red stone, the curb marked with grey slate. It felt very much like a pentioner village. It was a pentioner village, Greg had said. He’d studied the local area for geography the previous year.  
Greg and Mike, knew exactly where they were going. They directed the group towards a pub, called The Swan, which smelt of old beer and gravy, with an expectant look on their faces. The exterior was nice, it seemed to be styled like a Tudor building with vertical black striped lining the walls and crumbled brickwork. The inside was warm and busy, mostly filled with people above the age of 50, but John recognised some of his peers amongst those sat by the bar. The ceiling was low, Sherlock having to bend his head in order to walk through, with dry hanging lavender lining the wooden beams. It was surprisingly loud for such a small place, but they found a round table in the corner of the room to the left of the door. This room had a re-run of a football game on, but the 3 other people there didn’t seem particularly invested in it so it seemed to be providing background noise. 

“I can go grab us some drinks?” Mike offered and all the boys agreed. Mike wasn’t legally allowed to buy, he was 17 at most, but the old man at the bar seemed to care little about this. Money was money after all.   
“Thank you for coming, by the way.” John said once Mike had sat down, glasses in hand. They were filled with gold coloured beer, the collar sloshing onto the table. John didn’t particularly like beer, but forgot that once it they began talking.   
“It’s not problem, John.” Greg replied, shifting his seat for Mike. John sipped his drink and smiled.  
“Sherlock was impressed by you.” Mike remarked with a smile, flicking his eyebrow towards Greg. John cleared his throat.  
“Really, Sherlock?” He asked, looking towards his friend. Sherlock said nothing, as if he were waiting to power on before nodding.  
“Yes John. I didn’t realise you could run so fast.” John had to suppress the smile he felt pull his lips  
“I’ve had a lot of training.” John said into his drink. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Greg smile a little to Mike.  
“Well it paid off.” Mike replied and they all nodded. 

After another round, Greg proposed they buy something to eat and Mike agreed, as did John after a moments hesitation. Greg didn’t wait for Sherlock’s reply to grab menus. The food seemed to be the standard pub food. John decided on toad in the hole, Mike on scampi and chips, Greg settled on bangers and mash.   
“Sherlock?” John asked. Sherlock put down his menu, looking upwards towards John. “What about you?” Sherlock swallowed.   
“What are you getting?”  
“Toad in the hole.” John replied softly.   
“I’ll get that then.” Sherlock said to John. Mike offered to go and order and, when the others offered to pay, Mike refused. This made John shift uncomfortably in his chair, he didn’t like relying on others. Sherlock looked across to him and half smiled. John stopped moving. 

When the food arrived, they ate in silence. It wasn’t particularly good, but John was starving after the match. He hadn’t played in such a long time and this post-match hunger was very different to anything he felt before. His muscles already aching in an old yet familiar way. Sherlock, on the other hand, scraped food around on his plate. No one said anything about it, but Sherlock could feel their eyes on his face.   
“Is that all you’re gonna have, Sherlock?” Mike asked when he saw the cut-up food on Sherlock’s plate. John saw Sherlock lick his lips anxiously before replying.  
“Yes, I can’t eat and drink alcohol at the same time. Messes with my stomach.”   
“So basically, the opposite of what any other person does?” Greg asked.  
“Yes.”  
“Makes sense.” Gregg added with a laugh, rolling his eyes in a friendly and downing the dregs of his drink. The plates were collected by one of the bartenders, and they sat together in silence for a moment briefly after. 

“We’ve still got 4 hours till lock up.” John said to the group after he glanced at his watch. The school gates were locked at 10pm, and any late comers were made to sign in at reception, where they’d be given detention for the next day. “I’ve got nothing to do now, shall we stay out?” The others nodded. 

\--- 

So, they went to the off license near the pub and bought more booze, but it mattered little to John whether they drunk or not. Sherlock, of course, went to the counter. He was known round the village, he had lived there since he was born, so the owner of the off license simply laughed when Sherlock pretended to be 18, asked him what he would like and gave it to him at no charge. The boys were thoroughly impressed by this. 

“We should keep you around Sherlock.” Greg said jokingly as they walked down the cobbled street, the bottles banging together.   
“That’s the only reason?” Sherlock replied with a deep chuckle that made John’s stomach flip.  
“Yes.” Greg responded, passing John a bottle of amber coloured liquid. He didn’t check its contents, but he was sure it was some form of whisky.

They trailed back up the hill towards the school. John wasn’t exactly sure where they were going, and he didn’t think the others did either, but he didn’t mind. It was nice to see that they were all getting along, Sherlock laughing every now and again to something Mike or Greg said. It was very out of character for him, but he seemed happy so that was enough for John.   
The sun was now setting, half the sky inked a darkening blue and the rest a fantastic orange, the clouds tinted yellow by the dying sunlight. Mike beckoned them off the track they had walked up and towards a field. It wasn’t too far from the school, in fact John could see the outline of the roof against the sky. They took it in turns to hop the fence. John curled his hands round the wood, damp from rain, and hoisted himself over. He wobbled for a moment, allowing himself to securely get upright and then jump into the field below. The mud squishd beneath his feat, Mike throwing the bottles into the field and them landing with a soft bump. John smiled to himself as he picked up the bottles, walking towards Sherlock and Greg, who had both jumped the fence already. They watched Mike fumble and fall to the ground, the mud imprinting on his shirt. Mike stood back up, laughed, wiped his muddy hands on his trousers and joined them. Mike, it seemed, was a light weight.  
They walked deeper into the field, the 4 of them walking shoulder to shoulder in silence. John listened to the birds in the trees and hedges call to each other, a gentle melody for the sunset. It was a seemingly empty field of nothing more than grass and trees. The October air had become increasingly chilly and John as glad to be wearing a jumper. Sherlock, on the other hand, only donned his shirt and shifted uncomfortably when there was a sudden gust of wind. He could feel the familiar worry edge into his brain as they walked, but he tried to push it down with a hefty swing from his bottle. 

“Are you cold, Sherlock?” John asked him as they sat. The sun had been set only for a few moments but John could immediately tell that it was effecting Sherlock.  
“I’m fine, John.” He responded with a nod and Mike laughed lightly, passing round an assortment of snacks.   
“You can take my jumper if you want.” He was meant to make it sound like a sincere request, but in reality John sounded almost desperate.   
“John, really, I’m okay. Thank you though.” And John could barely see his face in the twilight that was ever darkening, but he could tell there was a small, gentle smile pressed on Sherlock’s lips. 

The night progressed and the conversation was taken up mostly by Mike. The more he drunk, the more confused he seemed to be, until for a solid 20-minute period he was rambling on and on about his brand of shoes. John wasn’t sure why or how Mike got onto this topic as he had started by talking about his favourite flower, but it was entertaining enough. The others were in fits of silent laughter, including Sherlock, and it even funnier due to the high amounts of alcohol in their systems. Mike was ridiculous. Harmless and kind but gullible and stupid when drunk. John felt sleepy, his brain almost vibrating in his skull as he watched Mike do impressions of the teachers they shared.

“Did you see Mr McGowan on the history trip?” Mike asked with a laugh. He had drunk at least a bottle and a half of red wine and seemed very invested in this particular portrayal.   
“No, what was he doing?” John laughed, his teeth chattering in his skull.  
“He was walking by the beach, and it’s true because I saw it.”  
“Well, you didn’t” Interjected Greg.  
“Okay well Malcolm saw it. Anyway. God what was I saying?” He paused, swaying on his feet as this story needed a standing retelling. “Mr McGowan was by the beach when this massive seagull shat on him. Right on his head.” Under any other circumstance, this was not funny. But Mike had attempted to squat, fallen backwards and was now laying back on the wet grass.   
“Where were you guys anyway? I didn’t see you until the train home.” Greg asked and John looked across the circle to Sherlock, who had seemingly decided that he was going to answer this question.  
“We were on the pier drinking.”  
“What!” Mike exclaimed, as if they did not have bottles in hand. He had sat back up and was puffing rather hard.   
“It was John’s idea.”   
“And you did that all night?” Greg was drunk too, but he was more pressing and inquisitive than Mike, who seemed not to care. Greg made John more alert, he too was nice, but there was an edge to him that Mike did not have.  
“We went back to the hostel too.” Sherlock seemed to be more sober than John, but he could see the flamboyant hand gestures already coming out of him, the alcohol quickly catching up to him. The boy had waved his hand around like an accessory when speaking and this made John chortle. “What are you laughing at, Watson?” Sherlock demanded from across the circle. John swallowed. The sudden attention change had caught him off guard and, even though the Watson had been said in a joking manner, John’s stomach still flipped.   
“You, Holmes.” He tried to pass it off as an equal joke and took a drink after speaking, his hands shaking from the cold and adrenaline.   
“I’ll give you something to laugh about in a moment.” Sherlock responded, his voice a sudden, very different, growl and John knew he ought to leave it, but the giddiness from the alcohol pushed him further and he wanted to hear Sherlock’s voice again.  
“Oh really?” John flicked his eyebrow and felt Greg sigh next to him.  
“Jesus Christ you two,” he said, “let’s have a bit of self-control.” John heard Sherlock laugh.  
“Relax Gavin.”  
“Greg.”  
“Greg” Sherlock repeated in a mocking tone. “I’m just having fun.” And he took a sip from his bottle again, his eyes not leaving John. John cleared his throat awkwardly and glanced down.   
“Well I’m having fun too.” Said Mike, who was seemingly on another planet and very much content with it.  
“See, Mike’s having fun.” Sherlock said, swinging his arm into the air and barely missing Greg’s nose. “Everyone’s having fun. Fun. Fun. Fun.” 

And suddenly, Sherlock stood up, spreading his arms wide and cracking his bones. In front of him was the moon, and in its light John was convinced Sherlock was made of silver. He watched the boy take a cigarette out his pocket (it seemed as though Sherlock had a surplus supply) and light it, the smoke funnelling into the cold Autumnal air. He wondered if anyone would ever be that attractive ever again. Greg broke the silence.  
“Come on, let’s get going.” And together they helped up a giggling Mike and made their way back across the field. 

This time, John walked with Sherlock and Greg and Mike walked together. They were behind him and Greg seemed to be having a hard time getting Mike to talk sense. Although it was unlikely, there was a chance that a teacher would ask where they had been and Mike seemed to be the one most likely to expose them for their drunken escapades. It seemed as though the school’s rampant alcohol problem was to be kept on grounds and nowhere else. Occasionally, John would hear Greg interject ‘you can’t say that Mike, they’ll know.’ in a tired voice. Although John knew he ought to be helping, Greg’s concerned seemed pointless, there was no way of hiding Mike’s drunkenness.   
Apparently, in their excitement they had walked straight past the fence gate, and John was lucky to have found it in the dark. They could barely climb it sober, so the disorientating nature of drunkenness would have meant that at least one of them would have broken a bone and the fence. Possibly at the same time. 

“Don’t you love it.” Sherlock asked suddenly as they were reaching the brow of the hill that turned into the school drive. He still was smoking his cig, but it was almost all filter. John watched the remaining stick glow in the darkness.  
“Love what?”   
“This,” Sherlock gestured with his free hand. “The air. The countryside. Being outside. It makes you feel alive.” John smiled to himself, drunk Sherlock’s wholesome ramble from Brighton coming back to him.  
“Yeah. It’s different to back home.”  
“Yes, home.” Sherlock dropped the filter, stomped on it rather too agressivly and continued walking. “Our homes are very different.”   
“They are.” John wasn’t sure where this conversation was going, but decided to engage anyway. Late Stage Drunk Sherlock was his favourite.   
“And it’s funny. We’re both from two different places but here we are.” There was a sudden gust of wind and John saw Sherlock shiver, the sleeves of his shirt doing little to protect his body.   
“Sherlock, do you want my jumper?” Sherlock looked at him and laughed loudly.  
“No John. See. We’re different. You’re kind and considerate and you give people things even when you have so little yourself. It makes you a good person.” John’s ears burnt. Even though Sherlock was drunk, the sentiment was clearly there.   
“I’m not a good person, Sherlock.”  
“If you’re not a good person, John Watson, then I must be satan.” And this made both of them laugh. John stopped to take off his jumper and handed it to Sherlock. “But you’ll be cold.”   
“Unlike you, Sherlock, I dress weather appropriately. I’m fine. Besides, we’re nearly at school.” Sherlock went to protest again but was silenced by John nudging him gently. The boy then pulled the knitwear over his head, flexing his arms a little, and nodded.   
“Thank you, John.”   
“It’s no problem, Sherlock.”

Greg watched them ahead of him, Mike leaning to his right. They were a confusing pair. He couldn’t quite figure out what was going on between them, and it seemed neither could they. Still, it mattered little to him whether they were together or not. Sherlock was a cold, sometimes cruel person and it was strange to see him bond so well with another person. In the five years that Greg had known Sherlock Holmes, he had never seen him have a close relationship with anyone. John Watson, it seemed, had changed that. Although he could be mean at times, Greg truly cared about Sherlock, and knowing he was happy was something that made him smile. 

\---- 

John and Sherlock stumbled into the dorm. They had managed to tap into the gates with no problem, encountering no teachers. John was tired, his body aching from the rugby match earlier in the day and the drowsy effect of the alcohol had set in. He just wanted to go to bed as quickly as possible and rest his heavy bones. Sherlock seemed to be in a similar position, his feet stumbling up the curling stairs. Several times he stopped to steady himself, and several times John had prepared to brace for impact of the falling boy. They made it to their room, however, with no additional bruises. 

“You have mud on your behind.” Sherlock said once they got into the room. The rest of the dorm quiet, the other students at the Sixth Form House or already in bed. It was only 9pm, but the week had been a busy one and John was determined to fall asleep as soon as possible.   
“Thank you, Sherlock.” John replied, wiping his hand across his posterior. He could tell he made it worse. Sherlock walked across to his bed and sat down; his back pressed against the wall. He was watching John take off his shoes and socks and John knew that the boy was buzzing to say something. John looked up at Sherlock from his own bed, clearing his throat to indicate that he was listening. 

“Thank you for inviting me to come.” He said timidly. It was odd to hear Sherlock speak so softly. In Brighton, Sherlock had crashed swiftly after his camp mannerisms begun. However, it seemed that he had progressed to an almost endearing stage of Sherlock-ism.   
“It’s no problem.” John replied with a close mouth smile, sliding his shoes under his bed.   
“I don’t think Gavin likes me.” John smiled slightly. Vulnerable Sherlock. Another confusing dimension to the already mysterious boy.   
“He does. It doesn’t seem to matter to you normally.” He tried to joke. Sherlock laughed airily.  
“Just because I don’t seem to have emotions doesn’t mean I’m feelingless.”   
“Sorry.” John replied, a little guilty. Sherlock was trying to open up to him and he had immediately shunned him for it.   
“It’s okay.” The boy said in a soft tone. John pulled on his pyjama shirt, the buttons fiddlier than before. He could feel a strange tension, as if Sherlock was going to speak again. But he ignored it and drew the curtain, moving his books from earlier off his bed. Behind him, John could hear the occasional sigh and rustle of clothes. 

“John.”  
“Yes, Sherlock.” John was sorting out some papers on his desk.   
“Can you help me get your jumper off?” John smirked a little, he had almost forgotten.  
“Of course.”

They spent the following 2 minutes trying to pull Sherlock’s arms out of the jumper sleeves. Although Sherlock was thin, too thin, he was tall and the material was tight around his arm pits and neck, making this tasks almost impossible. John was now standing in front of Sherlock, who was a lot taller than he seemed to remember, and was pulling at the bottom of the sleeve to try and give Sherlock some slack to move his arms. This would have been funny, but John was over tired and grouchy, and it was one of his favourite jumpers. A simple white cable knit. 

“Move your elbow in!” John suggested as Sherlock’s arms flailed helplessly.  
“I am trying.” The boy replied from under the jumper collar. John was quickly losing his rag.  
“Squat down a bit.”  
“What.”  
“Squat down.” And Sherlock did as he was told. John preceded to roll the jumper up Sherlock’s torso. “Move one of your arms into the jumper.” And again, Sherlock complied. Then, with one tug, John freed Sherlock’s head and left the right sleeve on Sherlock’s arm, allowing the other boy to pull it off. Sherlock pulled the jumper off his arm and for some reason was still slightly squatted. John went to say something, looking up at Sherlock, when he suddenly met his eyes. 

John resisted doing this under everyday circumstance. Sherlock’s eyes made John’s stomach flip. They were beautiful, somewhere between green and blue, and they made John wish he could paint. John thought they were the most attractive part of him and decided, in that moment, Sherlock’s eyes were possibly John’s favourite colour in the world.  
In fact, John didn’t even notice the room begin to fuzz and Sherlock lean towards him. John did not notice Sherlock flip down his rolled sleeve. John did not even notice when Sherlock gently cupped his face with his hands. All John felt was the softness of the other boys lips, the taste of booze still on his breath, the small sigh that he did when they parted.   
John opened his eyes to look at Sherlock, who was now standing at his full height. He seemed to be smiling, large and sincere, and John felt his heartbeat in his ears. This time, John met his lips halfway, standing on his tip toes, and laced his arm around Sherlock’s back. He felt him relax into John’s arms as they began to kiss again. It was perhaps one of the most natural feelings in the world, kissing, and kissing Sherlock seemed to be the best of it.   
Gently, they moved towards Sherlock’s bed, and John lightly pulled Sherlock’s shirt sleeve as an invite to sit opposite him. John had opened his eyes at this point, but Sherlock seemed to still have his eyes half closed. 

“Sherlock, are you okay?” But the boy seemed to only be able to nod in reply before he moved towards John, Sherlock’s lips pressing hard against his own. John moved onto his knees so Sherlock did not have to bend down so much. Sherlock seemed to agree with this position very much, his hands gently pulling at the hairs of John’s head as he kissed him with his tongue. The room was completely silent filled only by the sound of the occasional rustle of the bed sheets against Sherlock’s back as the leant down slowly, allowing John to sit himself on his stomach, John’s lips moving in synch with Sherlock’s. His counterpart had moved his hands to John’s waist, gently moving his fingers across his hips and along the button of his trousers. 

John knew exactly what he was doing, and he wasn’t against it. He felt more sober than he did before, and he certainly was willing to go further, if Sherlock wanted to. The boy under him was shifting under John’s weight, his hips grinding against John in an almost laughably enthusiastic way. It seemed Sherlock felt the same, his finders slipper under Johns waistband. John could feel Sherlock’s fingertips against his hip skin and sighed in response. He quickly broke away from Sherlock’s lips, resting his hands on his shoulders to keep himself up.   
“John.” The boy said slightly slurred. Clearly the alcohol hadn’t worn off on him completely.  
“Sherlock” The boy blinked below him, a look which John couldn’t describe set on his face. “Are you okay?” And Sherlock nodded confidently in response. “Are we…” And Sherlock nodded against, his mouth twisting gently upwards. It was a stupid, reckless teenager thing to do. But it made John buzz was excitement in more ways than one and to lose his virginity to Sherlock Holmes, possibly one of the most attractive people he had ever seen, was a huge bonus. 

John began to gently unbutton Sherlock’s trousers, his hips shifting to allow John wiggle room. He had never done this before and didn’t know whether to look Sherlock in the eye or not and so settled for awkwardly staring at Sherlock’s crotch area and he fought with the button.All the while, Sherlock was gently moving his fingers along John’s hips. It was distracting, but not unwanted. 

“Wait, John.” Sherlock said suddenly. John looked up and moved his hands.  
“What’s wrong?”   
“Please get off me.” He almost shouted with urgency.  
“Are you okay?”  
“John, I’m going to be sick.” Sherlock exclaimed, half shoving John off his lap and pulling up his trousers as he left the room, his feet smacking against the corridor floor in a desperate attempt to reach the bathroom before the booze scented vomit left his mouth and landed on the floor.

Dumbfounded, John hesitated before slipping on his pyjama bottoms and into his bed. The moment had been ruined and John was left with the frustration in his boxers. But they had been close. And that meant they could try again at some point. Although John had been a little drunk and Sherlock more than a little, it had been a conscious decision. For John at least. He wondered if Sherlock would change his mind when sober but somehow knew he would not. He couldn’t help but remember Brighton and the soft things Sherlock said at the pier. The boy truly liked him, and John wasn’t sure what that made him. He was attracted to sherlock, and now he could no longer deny it, but he wasn’t gay. Something about Sherlock was different and John wasn’t sure what, but it was big enough difference to make him want to sleep with him.   
John rolled onto his side, his back towards Sherlock’s bed. He heard Sherlock come back inside, drinking water from a cup he got from the kitchen.   
“Sorry John.” John didn’t turn around, his eyes half closed.  
“No Sherlock, it’s fine.” He heard Sherlock slip off his slipper and get into bed. “Some other time?”  
“Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delayed post, ive started re-reading my favourite book which of course has made my life grind to a stop. thank you for over 900 hits?!?!??!?!??!?!?!??!!?!?!? madness, who knew the sherlock fandom was alive and kicking in 2020. stay safe and well


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: REFERENCES TO SELF HARM (scars specifically)
> 
> i aim to post TW at the beginning of all chapters that may have potentially triggering content. i will always specify whether it is
> 
> \- graphic -> described in detail  
> \- references to -> referencing behaviours within character dialogue that could be triggering  
> \- alluding -> elements of content that can be inferred to be triggering.

The rest of October was filled with the threat of exams. Sherlock continued as if nothing had even happen, and it made John wonder if he had dreamt the entire thing. Sherlock remained civil, but was slowly distancing himself from John. As everyday passed, he was slowly coming to school less, entering the dorm room less and John realised that perhaps Sherlock needed space. So, he avoided him too, even though it hurt his feelings to think he was the cause of the upset. Sure, John didn’t think that it was going to change much, but at least they could…talk about what happened. At least then they would have some form of level footing. John decided to work through it, Sherlock would talk about it if he wanted to, and the exams were more important than boy drama, even if John wished Sherlock would talk to him. He needed to pass, they were integral for getting into university and keeping his scholarship, even so, the insects still beat at the back of his head. 

It was now November, the pressure slowly mounting. However, John remained in good spirits. He was doing enough work to make him feel confident (other than in chemistry – but John didn’t think he would ever be confident when doing chemistry) and he was growing closer to Mike and Greg. Since the rugby match in October, they had become a trio, sometimes a quad when Sherlock arrived, and John felt as though he could call them friends. Every morning they would eat breakfast together and at the weekend they would go out to the local and get food and then walk back to the school together. They would never discuss anything particularly deep and never asked about Sherlock (which John was thankful for) but their presence was enough. Although it was a small routine that had formed, it made John feel as though he had his own life, a feeling he had never had before.

“We’re going to The Swan later, are you coming?” Greg asked over breakfast one Friday. John shook his head as he cut into the bacon on his plate. He was surprisingly tired this morning and put it down to stress.

“I’ve got too much chemistry to do.” Mike rolled his eyes from across the table.

“You’re so boring John.” John kicked him gently under the table.

“So is chemistry. I just need to learn the polarity and intermolecular force stuff and then I’ll be able to relax.” Greg smiled.

“It’s okay John, not all of us can be student of the week.” Greg was referring to the time their history teacher used John’s Henry VII essay as an example for high quality writing and deemed him as ‘student of the week.’ It lead to John being banter-fully mocked for the following fortnight.

“I’ll come next week. I promise.”

So, John left for his English lesson, his bag on his back, alone. He was naturally good at English, it came from being able to write essays very quickly without having to think much about them. He kept it to himself, but secretly John boasted the ability to write pages and pages on one line of text, analyse it until the very last full stop. It meant that most lessons John didn’t need to focus particularly hard, instead he wrote things in the back of his notebook, from things that were worrying him to shitty poems or sketches of flowers and bad horses.

Today John was preoccupied with him. With Sherlock. It was becoming routine at this point. When idle, John’s mind would flicker to Sherlock. He hadn’t seen him all week, and he was barely around the last Saturday. The boy simply entered to pick up a small back from under his bed, nodding briefly at John, before leaving. (That action had confused John greatly – why look to him at all if he were ignored the rest of the time?) John didn’t ask Sherlock questions, he given very quickly after Sherlock would either ignore them, or reply in the most brief way possible. Instead, he settled on accepting the fact that maybe their friendship had been ruined by what had happened that night in October. Maybe whatever they had was lost. It frustrated John to the point of angry tears which caused him to smother his face with his pillow so no one would hear him. He deemed it ridiculous, it was just some boy drama after all, but there was something else about it that set John on edge. Sherlock’s sudden behaviour change was more than just down to their more-than-kiss, it was something else. However, in a move to try and settle his otherwise anxious mind, John reassured himself that he only felt this way because he cared for Sherlock. Arguably, too much. John found himself sketching spidery lines of flowers with his biro pen as he thought, glancing up the the front of the class every so often to at least look as though he were paying attention.

“John. Could you tell me how you would expand on this point?” His English teacher said suddenly. John had been in the middle of debating whether he ought to just go to Sherlock’s house to see if he was okay.  
“Yep. Um.” John responded flatly, but internally panicked, unsure what to say. **Calltullus’s Plays With Human Emotion.** He cleared his throat, an anxious tick, and squinted slightly. “In Catullus 85, there’s the line ‘I hate and I love. Why I do this, perhaps you ask. I know not, but I feel it happening and I am being tortured.’ Which shows the contrast in the human experience. The use of ‘and’ as a connective means that love and hate are intrinsically linked. He might be arguing that ‘love’ and ‘hate’ cannot exist without each other. Where ‘love’ exists, there is an opportunity to be ‘tortured which, for Calltullus, ends in hate.’” He glanced down, his ears hot with embarrassment and anxiety. Even he knew that that was too much of an expose for his own emotions and, although he knew no one but he knew this, John still wanted to be sucked into a hole.

“Thank you, John” His teacher said, nodding towards him. John smiled a small smile.

_Odi et amo_

John wrote into his book. _I hate and I love._

He loved Sherlock. Or at least, he liked him greatly. John couldn’t avoid that. He tended to ignore it, pretend as though he cared little at all. He attempted to pass it off as a feeling of friendship. But everytime Sherlock was in their dorm there was some kind of force. The atmosphere tense, not with hostility but with something else. John didn’t know whether Sherlock felt it too, but he couldn’t forget what he said.

_Some other time?_

_Of course._

But he hated Sherlock. John knew something was going on, some form of untouched anguish. His mystery was a force that both compelled John’s interest and made him dislike Sherlock at the same time. The fact he wouldn’t talk to John hurt him, although he was reassured slightly by Mike reminding him that Sherlock rarely spoke to anyone it did not irradiate the concern that something was up. The random disappearances without explanation frustrated him and made matters worse. John found himself randomly waking to check his dorm mate’s bed, which was almost always empty. Then, he would lay awake for hours, listening to the gurgling pipes and wondering where Sherlock was. Hoping that he was safe.

I hate and I love. I hate and I love. I hate and I love.

\--

After English, John had a study period. Instead of going to the library, he decided to settle into the desk in his dorm room. He was too unsettled to actually do any work, and so spent the 2 hour period flicking between swinging on his chair and opening his text book to different pages. What made it worse was that he knew he had to study. He had to get this chapter of Chemistry done if he wanted to be anywhere near passing but he couldn’t do it. None of the words made sense, and it made him feel more knotted to try and force himself to work. John was unsure of why there was this sudden knot in his brain that refused to budge and, although he knew it was due to Sherlock, he consciously put it down to a lack of sleep (which was also being caused by Sherlock.) Both Mike and Greg were in lesson so there was no hope in trying to work with them, so John decided to take a break after writing the word ‘polarity’ at the top of his page and make himself some tea.

Downstairs was empty apart from a boy who was lounging on a chair by the fireplace, somewhere between wake and sleep. Now and again he would shift, his folded arms twitching as he sighed in his dreams. John laughed quietly to himself, if only he could sleep right now, perhaps it would be a better use of his time. He wandered over to the kettle, filling it up at the sink and boiling it. Even if he tried, John wouldn’t be able to sleep. He was too riled up, his brain anxiously flickering and, as he turned around to grab a cup from the cupboard, he caught the figure of Anderson out of his peripheries.

“Hello John.” He said. John sighed internally; he wasn’t in the mood to deal with the irritating shit.

“Alright.” John smiled with his lips pressed together, he could barely force it out.

“How are you?” God, he hated pleasantries, especially with Anderson. Sherlock’s silence was welcomed as then John knew their relationship was built on something with substance, more than just a ‘hello’ ‘how are you’ like so many friendships were.

“Alright.” John said, pausing, before pouring the tea into the cup. “Is there anything you need?” He asked, trying to indicate that he wanted Anderson to leave. John watch him lean against the countertop, crossing his legs and folding his arms.  
“I was just wondering if you’d seen Sherlock?” Despite the innocent tone, John knew Anderson’s intent was to unnerve him. He wondered whether it was out of boredom or an attempt to assert himself as a dominating figure. Most likely, the second.

“No, I haven’t.” John threw a sarcastic smile to Anderson, who returned it. “Have you?”

“No. That’s why I was asking” He replied as John opened the fridge to get the milk.  
“I see.” Silence. “Well, Phillip, if you care so much, perhaps you could find out yourself.” Anderson sighed, licking his lips and dropping his hands as John removed the tea bag.

“Wouldn’t you like to know where he is?” He enquired.  
“It doesn’t particularly effect me.” Lie. He could tell Anderson could hear it too.

“Strange, I thought you and Sherlock were close?”

“What makes you say that?”

“You were joined at the hip not that long ago.” John shook his head.

“Sherlock’s my friend.” Anderson scoffed at him.  
“How soundproof do you think these walls are?” John knew Anderson was making shit up, he and Sherlock had done nothing. But the evidence worked against him, Anderson technically wasn’t wrong, he and Sherlock had kissed, well almost more than kissed, and John’s stupid sudden reaction gave Anderson the upper hand. John laughed emptily.  
“I don’t know what you’re hearing, Anderson, as I said. Sherlock and I are friends. Nothing more than friends.” He gestured with the teaspoon in his hand. “Also, I don’t see how or why this would matter to you.” Anderson shrugged.

“You wouldn’t want the wrong person finding out.” Anderson said and John swallowed.  
“As I said. Nothing is going on. Nothing.” His voice was tight in his throat and he could hear how desperate it sounded. He was sure Anderson could too. There was a moments pause, before Anderson flicked one of his eyebrows.  
“John.” His tone suddenly switched to something far more deceptive. A lump formed in John’s throat but he passed it off by pouring milk in his tea. “Have you seen Sherlock’s arms?” John stopped pouring briefly, his back suddenly hot with a prickling sense of anxiety and dread. He cleared his throat, unsure what to say.

“No.” Pause. Of course he had. Once, when he was getting changed, John caught a glimpse at the inner of Sherlock’s left arm. It was white, but sprinkled with whiter, straight, horizontal lines that ran the width of his forearm. To anyone else, the scars would have gone un-noticed as they were almost invisible, but John knew what they looked like. He found himself subconsciously looking towards his friends arms and legs, checking that they weren’t hurting themselves. John didn’t bring it up, and he ignored it again when he noticed several pinker marks a few days later. “Why does it matter to you?” The boy opposite him shrugged, turning to lean his back against the counter-top.

“He’s strange. Sherlock Holmes. Self destructive in more ways than one.” John swallowed, the words hanging in the air.

“Why- What do you get out of this?” John asked, half laughing as he mixed the tea. Anderson shrugged and John again questioned the incentive of the boy. It was almost as though he was so desperate to have a connection with someone that he’d take an argument over nothing.

“Just. Don’t treat me like shit.” John could almost have laughed in his face.

“Is that it?”

“Yes. Don’t treat me like shit and get Sherlock to like me.”

“I can’t do that. I can’t make someone like you.”

“The walls can’t talk.” Anderson said, looking to John. “But I can.” John was sure the line was rehearsed in his head. It sounded too rehearsed and delivered too straightly. “Who would the school believe? A long term student, exemplar student just trying to study. Or a couple of bum boys who so _obviously_ like each other. One too poor to attend the school off his own back and the other a mentally ill arsehole?” 

“I.” No words formed in John’s mouth. “Just fuck off Phillip.”

“Sorry?”

“Literally just fuck off. Do you not think Sherlock has enough going on?” The words soured his mouth. “What is the point in this? You threaten Sherlock and I, which, by the way, we are just friends. You use Sherlock’s…stuff as a way to try and cause problems between us? Is it desperation or simple stupidity?” John was so angry his hands were shaking. Phillip shook his head, laughing in disbelief. “Well?” And Anderson didn’t answer so John took that as an indicator for his exist, his vision still hot.

“You don’t win in these situations, Phillip. This isn’t a game, this is someone’ life. Just fucking grow up.” And when he got upstairs, John threw himself against the mattress of his bed, his eyes stinging with angry tears. Now Anderson knew something and somehow John knew that he’d use it if he could, to try and get someone on side. And, as he dozed off, all John could think of were the slithered scars on Sherlock’s arm and Anderson’s words.

_‘He’s strange. Sherlock Holmes. Self-destructive in more ways than one_ ’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello hello   
> sorry for the delayed update. my fav character is dead in the book im reading so i guess my life is over smh. anyhow, i think im going to take a week off updating so i can work on the drafts so im like 3 or so chapters ahead? works been yeeting me so thats why ive not been doing much. thank you so much for 1 k reads and all the comments!! youre so kind   
> <3


	18. A NOTE FROM ME

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TO BE DELETED

hi 

so im gonna be simple. as you know, there are some pretty intense topics and themes in this fic that only become worse as they go. when i started writing this, it was a form of therapy for me to cope with things ive experienced. however, because life is a bitch, writing this has become more difficult. not only because im struggling with some sherlock-ism myself, but also because it's quite a taxing thing to write about in general. ive got little motivation atm and work is sucking the life out of me

so the fic is on pause. 

i will update with what i have, up to the chapters ive got. these will be staggered. but after the last chapter i will remind yall that this is paused. 

im sorry. i will return. 37K words is too many to give up on and i want to see this to the end. 

im sorry for disappointing you at all. i want to write this properly and right now i cant.

sorry.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: GRAPHIC SELF HARM AT THE END OF CHAPTER (the action of)
> 
> i aim to post TW at the beginning of all chapters that may have potentially triggering content. i will always specify whether it is
> 
> \- graphic -> described in detail  
> \- references to -> referencing behaviours within character dialogue that could be triggering  
> \- alluding -> elements of content that can be inferred to be triggering.

The final lesson of the day for John was history. They were due to receive and improve upon their most recent assessment. Although they weren’t quite as important as the Christmas exams, the assessments would still contribute to university decisions. John wanted a good mark, simply for his own peace of mind. 

When he arrived, he noticed Sherlock at the desk. It took every single muscle in John’s body for him not to both scream at Sherlock and hug him. His voice caught in his throat as he sat down to speak, unable to look at Sherlock’s face.  
“Hello John.” He smelt strongly of smoke. John didn’t know what to say, gritting his teeth in frustration and distress.  
“Where the fuck have you been?”  
“It doesn’t matter, I’m here now.” John almost screamed, a weeks worth of anxiety rising in his throat.  
“Sherlock, its been a week, why the fuck do you think it’s okay.”  
“I don’t think its okay. It matters not if you think it is okay or not”  
“Do you know how worried I was. I care, Sherlock.” There was a brief pause as exam papers were passed back to the students. Sherlock turned to face John.  
“I don’t ask you to care about me, John. I don’t know why you do, I didn’t ask you to.” Sherlock glared at him.  
“Well I do, Sherlock. At least have enough grace to tell me where you’re going.” Sherlock huffed.  
“I owe you nothing.” John shook his head in disbelief, opening his exam paper. There was a ‘B’ written in red in on the front of the paper.  
“Jesus Sherlock, what’s wrong with you.” He looked to the paper in Sherlock’s hands, catching sight of the ‘D’ written just below the title. Sherlock had clearly seen John look towards the paper as, when John looked back up, he was glaring at him. 

For the rest of the lesson they worked in silence. They were improving upon their essay questions with reference to a shared text book, so every so often Sherlock and John would meet each-others eyes. Sherlock’s were frosty and John couldn’t help but look away, full of fear that he’d done something wrong. 

But he hadn’t. John debated it with himself and, no matter which way he looked at it, Sherlock was in the wrong. Sherlock knee John was worried about him, and it seemed as though the boy wanted to see how far he could bend John before he broke. He was behaving differently, somehow, and the cold and flippant exterior of Sherlock’s behaviour put John on edge. For the remaining time together, they said nothing, Sherlock was writing feverishly almost as if his hand was itching for some kind of activity. John, on the other hand, could not concentrate, his brain swollen with aggravation. 

After the final bell, they passed their papers to the front. Before John could even turn to Sherlock to say something, he was gone, his chair still poking out the end of his desk. John moves slowly, almost in angry tears. He had to study but, as he entered the empty dorm room that seemed to be echoing its great emptiness, John decided that study wasn’t a good idea currently and thus made his was towards the bus station to get to the pub. 

\--

“John? We didn’t think you were coming?” Greg said over the noise of the Friday evening.  
“I wasn’t going to, but here I am.” Mike walked over, carrying 2 drinks.  
“Alright John.” John nodded. “Do you want something?”  
“In a minute.” He responded. Mike sat down and John shuffled his chair round the table.  
“We were just talking about Anderson.” Greg said as he grabbed his drink from Mike’s hands..  
“Really?”  
“He’s been acting weird, worse than normal.” Mike remarked, sipping his drink. Greg nodded in agreement and John sighed, shaking his head.  
“What’s he done?” Gred asked.  
“Who? Anderson?”  
“Yeah.” John cleared his throat, pulling his sleeves of his jumper over his hands.  
“I don’t know. I saw him earlier and he said some stuff.” John wasn’t specific. They didn’t ask any further. After a moments pause, John continued. “He seems attached to Sherlock?”  
“I’ve noticed too.” Mike replied. “He’s jealous, John. Don’t worry.”  
“Of what?’  
“Your relationship to Sherlock.”  
“Do you reckon he wants in?” Greg asked with a snort. John laughed, his mouth a gape at the thought.  
“Maybe.” Mike said with a serious tone. “It wouldn’t surprise me.”  
“Wait, really?” John replied, his face twisted with confusion.  
“Yeah. Anderson’s a strange man. He’s never explicitly said anything about it, but either he likes Sherlock romantically or he wants to kill him.”  
“Or both.” Greg added. “If I were Sherlock I’d get a restraining order.” Mike chortled.  
“But how can he? Sherlock hates him?” John asked and Mike shrugged.  
“I don’t know, attraction to the mystery of Sherlock Holmes.”  
“Who can blame him,” Greg remarked, sipping his drink “He’s a fine looking man. Not to be gay.” And both Greg and Mike laughed. John smiled, shifting awkwardly in his seat. It seems as though Anderson and I have more in common than I thought. 

After many rounds of what ended up being shots, John, Mike and Greg stumbled back up to the school. Twice John almost slipped up and admitted his attraction to Sherlock. Once when Mike was talking about the private girls school a short drive away that was holding a Christmas Ball and once when Greg admitted he skipped history to go and have sex with his next door neighbour’s daughter. Mike had nodded in admiration but John remained silent. It was strange that these boys could be so open and talkative about who they liked. They did not hesitate and it was seemingly a sincere conversation. It was a reminder John was the 3rd party in the friendship, Greg and Mike had been friends before he was at the school and they would probably remain friends after school too. John was sure that if he did profess his attraction, Mike would not be against it and Greg would follow suit, but admitting it in his head was very different to saying it out-loud. John didn’t think he’d be able to string the words together into a sentence when it came to Sherlock. 

“What’s happening with you and Sherlock then, John?” Greg asked suddenly as they were approaching the brow of the hill.  
“What do you mean.” He replied, his brow furrowing. John was not sober enough to have this conversation.  
“Nothing.” He remarked and Greg tutted.  
“Come on John you can tell me.” Greg pushed and Mike tapped his arm.  
“Leave him,Greg.”  
“Shut up Mike, you’re no saint. There’s nothing wrong with it John, you can tell us.” It was tempting to tell them, but John backtracked.  
“Seriously Greg, it’s nothing. We just had an argument earlier, that’s it.”  
“What about?” The black haired boy enquired and John paused.  
“N-nothing.” Hiccup. He suddenly felt upset. “Just that Sherlock keeps leaving without telling me. And I wor-worry about him”  
“Well, that’s just Sherlock.” Mike replied and Greg nodded. John shook his head.  
“It doesn’t make it okay, though. If-if-if he goes off and doesn’t come back? Then what. Who’s to blame?” John gestured to himself and Greg battered his hand away.  
“Don’t be thick, John. It wouldn’t be your fault. Things happen.”  
“Yeah…well I don’t want them to.” He kicked a stone, suddenly angry again. “I’m gonna talk to Sherlock ab-about it again.” They fell silent again, the gate coming into view. They waited for Mike to tap his card to the gate for entry, before walking next to each other again.  
“Whatever you think is best, John.” Mike responded. “But remember it’s not Sherlock’s fault.”  
“What you-you mean it’s not his fault. Of course it is.” John responded, irritated at Mike’s defence of Sherlock’s behaviour.  
“No, it’s not. He doesn’t choose to be miserable. He doesn’t chose any of it. It’s all a result of his brain. Just be sensitive.” John laughed at him.  
“I think I know what I’m dealing with, Mike.” He retorted. They stopped outside the dorm house door.  
“I don’t think you do. This is Sherlock Holmes, John, you need to be careful.” Again, John laughed, unlocking the door to the dorm as he did.  
“Whatever Mike. I’ll say what I want. If he doesn’t like it, tough fucking shit.” John heard Greg hum in agreement and, now confident with Greg’s support and the contribution of booze in his system, John bound up the stairs and (more wobbled) to his door.

“Sherlock.” He said before entering. There was a rustle from inside.  
“Hang on John.” He heard Sherlock say. There was a hint of panic in his voice. John tutted. How dare he ask me to hang on after the stress he caused me. John thought as he opened the door.

Inside, Sherlock was sitting crossed legged on his own bed in the dark, wide eyed and shifting uncomfortably at John’s presence. John didn’t see what the matter was at first.  
“I just want to apologise for disappearing earlier, John. I’m very sorry for-“ He said quickly before John could cut him off. The drunk boy took off his shoes and turned on the light next to his bed. “John…no.” But it was too late. 

Sherlock’s arms were red stained with what John knew was blood. There was a pile of rags next to him, tarnished with deep red patches, and what appeared to be a pencil sharpener blade in his right hand. It was clear Sherlock was finished and was now cleaning up. Quickly, he dropped the blade and tried to roll down his sleeve, acting as though John did not already have the image burnt into his skull. John was too drunk to form coherent sentences so instead sat on his own bed in dumbfounded silence.  
“Sherlock, what the fuck!” He near shouted.  
“John please don’t shout.”  
“What the fuck are you doing!” He watched as Sherlock bound his arm with one of the rags and rolled down his sleeve, successfully this time.  
“John, please.”  
“Are you stupid?” Sherlock did not look up, opening his bag and dropping the blade inside, along with the remaining rags. “Sherlock!” John repeated and the boy opposite him looked up. He seemed more terrified that he got caught then at the act he was doing in the first place.  
“What do you want me to say.” Sherlock’s voice was thick. It sounded as though he were going to cry.  
“What are you doing?”  
“You know what I’m doing, John.” He spat. “Stop asking.” Sherlock opened his chest of draws and bundled some clothes in the same bag with the blade in it.  
“Where are you going?” John asked, suddenly afraid.  
“I can’t be here. I need to get away. I can’t be here.” Sherlock repeated, his tone desperate.  
“Sherlock.”  
“What?”  
“Give me it.”  
“What?” Sherlock asked again, this time in confusion.  
“Give me the blade.” John outstretched his hand.  
“What? No!” John cocked one of his eye brows.  
“Give it to me or I’ll start shouting.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes, almost daring him to. “Fine! Sherlock what’s going on!” John raised his voice louder and louder with each word. He saw Sherlock swallow, his eyes scan as he was deciding what to do. He then took the bag off his back, removing the blade and zipping it back up. He handed it to John, who took it quickly.  
“Are you happy?” The boy asked sarcastically but did not wait for a reply before leaving, slamming the door after him. There was a knock of anger on the wall from the dorm next door.

After John was sure Sherlock was gone, he went to the toilet and flushed the blade away, the toilet water turning a slight red tone from the unclean blade. He washed Sherlock’s blood off his hands (something he tried not to think about) and then wandered back to the dorm room, opening the window wide. It was a cold night, John was sober now, and the air that circulated the room bit his skin. John stared wide eyed at the ceiling, eyes watering in frustration, anger and something else. Betrayal? Sadness? He couldn’t think, his brain nullified. Instead, he stared and stared and stared, the night sky lightening quickly, it seemed. There was nothing to be done, John decided. He had taken the blade so had done as much damage control as possible, he couldn’t stop Sherlock. It’s okay, he told himself, running his hand through his hair. It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay.

John felt sick, anxiety and alcohol churning in his empty stomach, so found himself in the kitchen grabbing a glass of water, his hand shaking as he held the cup under the tap.  
“You okay?” A voice said behind him. John looked over his shoulder. It was James from English. John didn’t exactly dislike him, but there was something about James that put him on edge.  
“Yeah.” John said flatly, reaching over to turn off the tap. It took mental strength to even move, his brain jittering in his skull. “Just feel a bit sick.” He heard James sigh.  
“Well, I hope you feel better.” James replied, shifting to the right to let John move passed him.  
“Thanks.” John walked through the door to his door when his head suddenly lurched, forcing John to grasp the door frame with his available hand. He heard James walk towards him before there were hands on his shoulders. John jolted, sloshing water onto the floor and onto his arm. James moved quickly back.  
“Can you not?” John said, shaking off the feeling of James’ arms around him.  
“Sorry, I thought you were going to fall.” John sighed, shaking the water off his arm.  
“It’s fine. Sorry.” James furrowed his brow at John defeated tone.  
“Are you alright?” He asked. It took every cell in John’s body not to start crying.  
“Yeah. Sorry.”  
“It’s okay. You don’t need to apologise.” John smiled behind him, closed mouth and quick. When people are nice, it makes things worse. 

Upstairs, he settled himself against the wall next to his bed. It must have been about 2am, the night still underway. He hated it. The night time after. Always. It was the worst. Loneliness and fear. A lack of control. John found himself banging his head against the wall in frustration, but soon stopped out of fear of being heard. Alone, he wrapped his arms around himself, his jumper soft and familiar, and gently cried into the sleeves, the moonlight spilling onto the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for the lovely comments of support on the last chapter. i’m still not back properly, but will update intermittently. 
> 
> if you care - i got into my first choice university to study english! yay go me.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: GRAPHIC SELF HARM (john remembers the way it looked) 
> 
> i aim to post TW at the beginning of all chapters that may have potentially triggering content. i will always specify whether it is
> 
> \- graphic -> described in detail  
> \- references to -> referencing behaviours within character dialogue that could be triggering  
> \- alluding -> elements of content that can be inferred to be triggering.  
> (See the end of the chapter for more notes

In the morning, John did not to hear the low whispers of Greg and Mike going passed his room as they often did in the morning as they went down to breakfast together . Instead, just as the sky was warming with a soft pink hue, John shuffled as silently as possible to the pairs shared dorm room and quietly knocked on the door. It took 3 attempts, but after a few minuets, Greg opened the door, looking dishevelled and sleepy. 

“Alright John?” He asked. John wondered what time it was.  
“Yeah. Um. Can I come and just. Sit.” He sighed. Greg nodded, not asking any questions. There was a pause.  
“Sure,” He opened the door wider for John, inviting him in. “Do you want a blanket or something?” Greg was sure John hadn’t slept and now wasn’t the time to ask why he hadn’t. He decided to just be as nonchalant as possible, it wanting to make anything worse than it may be. He knew it concerned Sherlock; it often did now days.  
“Yeah. Thanks.” Greg nodded as John sat at one of the desk chairs. It was still fairly dark, the sun barely up, and Mike was sleeping soundly. John heard the door gently clink closed and watched Greg move towards his chest of draws. The room layout was identical to his dorm, except the curtains were blue and white checked.  
“Here.” Greg said, throwing the blanket towards John, who caught it easily. “Are you sure you’re alright?” He asked as John unfolded the blanket and adjusted it on his lap. He watched him fiddle with the embellished hem. Greg didn’t expect a reply and John knew so said nothing. Greg simply got back into bed, nodding to John as he did so. John nodded back, watching Greg settle. After a few moments, Greg had stopped shifting, and John settle into the chair properly, his eyes suddenly heavy. As he fell asleep, John couldn’t help but see the cuts on Sherlock’s arm, their hot redness exaggerated in the paralysis of sleep.

\---

Mike and Greg didn’t ask many questions. They let John say as much as he felt comfortable repeating. They could connect the dots if they truly wished, but Mike wasn’t the most type and Greg was mature enough to know when to push it. Now, was not the time. John just told them that Sherlock just got up and left in the middle of the night after they had an argument about him leaving randomly (not strictly untrue, John told himself.) They didn’t ask why John was awake all night or why he needed to be in their room, Mike knew John would tell them with time. He noted when John said ‘Sherlock’s doing just what you said he’d do.’ in a tight and tired voice. Although it was very little, Mike could guess what John was implying. He shook his head at this, and told John that Sherlock had his moments, which made the boy sigh in return. 

“Do you have your essay plan, John?” Mr McGowan asked in the Monday morning lesson. The weekend had passed in a blur and John didn’t do anything but sit in the dorm room. He didn’t remember if he ate anything at all. It seemed as if everything was removed, as if John had stepped back. He found himself shaking his head, checking the watch on his wrist to ensure he was awake. And suddenly, it was Monday.

“No Sir. I’m sorry.” He watched Mr McGowan hesitate. Out of all his teachers, his history teacher was probably his favourite. He saw the teachers brows furrow. John always did his work and he was thankful he was so attentive.  
“Why not?”  
“I was sick over the weekend.” Mr McGowan nodded slowly, noticing how tired John looked.  
“Get it to me this evening please. Do you know where Mr Holmes is?” John shook his head. “He’s missed quite a few lessons. If you see him, please ask him to come and see me so I can catch him up.” John nodded as the teacher moved passed to the next set of tables. It was a lucky escape – John was glad that Mr McGowan was so lenient. If he had been given a detention he would have started crying right then and there. To preoccupy himself, John played with the lining of his blazer, naming all the elements in the periodic table as he did so, his brain thick with honey. 

On Wednesday, John had rugby training for a match the following week. It was lightly drizzling, which annoyed John as the rain had a habit of getting in his eyes and flattening his hair against his head in such a way that made it impossible to see. He’d rather a heavy rain that shitty drizzle. At least the ground would be soft to fall on John reminded himself, flexing the hand he scuffed all those months ago. The first time Sherlock properly spoke to him.  
For some reason, that thought made John’s stomach turn uncomfortably. The fact he hadn’t seen Sherlock since Friday made him nervous. There was the positive that John knew he had his blade, which was now sitting in the U bend of the shared toilet, although it was likely that Sherlock had many. Somehow, John knew that Sherlock wouldn’t kill himself that way. It was simply a self harm method. Suicide that way seemed very un-Sherlock. John kicked the softening grass with the toe of the boot. Practise was boring. They were trying passing techniques, but currently the coach was practising with a small group, which left John and 3 others alone. They weren’t allowed to move from position, or maybe they were, but John did not want to flaunt this rule. The thought of Sherlock bleeding out onto the expensive wooden floors of his bedroom made John feel sick, closing his eyes hoping the image willwould pass. 

“Can we spread into our positions?” The teacher said suddenly, throwing the ball to one of the players. John kept his eyes trained on the ball, but even when it was moving closer and closer to John’s end of the pitch, he could not switch into action. In fact, when the the ball was passed to him, John fumbled with the ball, dropping it in the mud.  
“Watson! What are you doing?” Someone shouted, which made John’s face sting. So, when the ball and positions were reset, John ensured to play harder and harder. His face wet with the rain, which was now falling more and more heavily the longer the training went on. Several times, John was tackled, once was playing the person – he had been tackled whilst not even holding the ball. John took it as an indicator that he needed to work harder. These were private school boys who’s lives were heavily formed on rugby. It was an elitism thing. John could have laughed. How ridiculous it seemed. Stupid upper class shits.

After training, John had enough time to have a shower, washing the mud from his hair and knees, before an impending biology assessment. It was similar to the history one. It carried little weight, but it would give John an indicator of what he needed to work on.He scrubbed the dirt from his arms, the heat of the steam making him woozy. It was therapeutic, removing gravely silt from his skin. He counted the amount of rubs it took for all the plastered muck to come off. One, two, three, four. And he found himself scrubbing the sponge harder and harder against his skin, until he was sobbing silently in the shower cubical, his hand pressed against his mouth to stem the painful sobs from escaping his lips. The hot water, the smell of sickly strawberry soap, the thought of Sherlock being dead in a ditch. John gripped the metal shower switch in his right hand, as if it grounded him to the very little reality that seemed to exist in that moment. He sobbed and sobbed and sobbed until he was sick in the drain. 

Sherlock did not come to the exam, which John was not surprised by, but it still put him on edge. The entire exam was filled with John randomly staring off into space, his head filled with other, more pressing matters. This does not matter. John reminded himself. This is not important. He had somehow stumbled from the shower, to his room. Put his pressed cotton shirt against his skin. Breathed. As he walked down the stairs in the dorm, James caught him again. He saidAtHe said nothing to him, which was a relief. John felt as though he were going to cry again at any moment, so when James simply walked past without small talk, John sighed with relief.

At the end of the assessment, John gave his paper quickly to Mr Smitham, not looking him in the eyes.  
“Watson.” His teacher said. Internally, John screamed.  
“Yes Sir.” He glanced up.  
“May I talk to you for a moment?” John nodded. He didn’t dislike Smitham, he was a mostly polite man, other than when he would randomly have spurts of anger which would end up with at least half the class doing a detention. John stood to the right of his desk. “Have you seen Sherlock?” John cleared his throat.  
“No Sir.”  
“I see.” His teacher replied, quickly noting something on a piece of paper. “Could you give this to your history teacher?  
“Yes Sir.” John replied, taking the slip from Smitham’s hands. As he was turning to leave, he heard Smitham speak.  
“Are you alright, John.” He said John’s name softly and it took every atom in his body not to cry. John nodded.  
“Yes Sir, I was just sick over the weekend so I’m just…recovering.”  
“Alright, I’ll keep that in mind when marking your paper.” Mr Smitham was not convinced by John’s sickness story, John could tell by his tone, but he was pitying him anyway.  
“Thank you.” John replied, his voice steady and flat. He waited a moment before continuing to walk, his pace quickening as he exited the room, his first balled.

Just as John was walking into the reception area from his science room, Mike caught sight of him. John pretended to not have seen him, walking quickly away from the thong of students and towards the large doors that opened out into the land. It was lunch and John knew that if Mike spoke with him, he’d have to eat in the main hall. Currently, John felt very close to tears, so a room full of people would not be a good idea at present. 

When he got into the dorm, John locked himself into his room. Of course, Sherlock was not there. John felt sick, his head oddly light. He sat against the door, the voices downstairs audible through the wood. His breath was hitching in his throat, his stomach unsettled. It was a panic attack. John was familiar. He straightened his back, placing his head against the door, trying to use the wood to ground him some how. It bought him no solace, his breathing becoming more rapid. John was lost, unsure of what to do. All he could hear was his own rapid breathing. He took his blazer sleeve and placed it over his mouth, smothering the noise from his mouth. Come on John. Come on. Come on. But no matter how many times he told himself it was okay, he continued to panic, his head so light he was convinced he was going to pass out. 

Then, suddenly he began to cry. His entire chest heaving with pain as a tears slipped down his face. It all came back, his mother. Her own problems with self harm, self abuse. Anything she could get her hands on. Anything Anything Anything. It was odd. John knew Sherlock was a bad idea. John could not cope with such similarities. But he needed to be needed. He had to be needed. If not, what was he? He needed to protect Sherlock. Ensure the same thing didn’t happen to him. But could John help a boy so recluse, so in built in his own thoughts and pattens that it was seemingly impossible to know what was going on in his head. 

In History, they were beginning to plan for their next essay exam. John had at least 20 different plans and did not see how this was beneficial, but quietly did the work none the less. Sherlock was not in the lesson, which did not surprise John. His brain was too tired to worry and simply fixated his thoughts on revision.  
“Sir,” John said quietly as Mr McGowan walked past where he say. “I have a note from Mr Smitham.” His teacher looked down at John’s desk, softly taking the note out of his hands. He opened it immediately, and John tried to study his face to determine what was enclosed. Only moments after he had walked away, he saw Sherlock walk through the door through his periphery. He apologised to Mr McGowan, who looked up from the note in his hand.  
“See me after the lesson, please Sherlock.” He said, shaking the note in his hand. John saw Sherlock scan his hand and shake his head, knowing its contents. They met eyes as Sherlock moved to sit down, John clearing his throat to break the tension.

“You need to work in pairs, so I expect the plan submissions by next Friday. They shouldn’t take too long. You have todays lesson and then the next one, as well as homework. Any problems, let me know.” Mr McGowan said from the front of the class room. There was the nodding of heads from the rest of the students as a low hum of conversation began. John slipped his text book from his bag, opening the page to the section on the security of the Tudor dynasty as Sherlock produced his history notebook. 

“John, I just want to say I’m sorry.” Sherlock quietly murmured to John. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I’m sorry I walked off, I can’t imagine how awful you must have felt.” John put down his highlighter and looked to Sherlock.  
“Thank you for apologising.” He begun. John was unsure of how to continue. “But I’m more worried about…”He trailed off, his eyes catching the inside of Sherlock’s sleeve, his brain filled again with the blade that was tarnished with the boys blood. Sherlock looked towards the front and sighed.  
“Yes. Well, you shouldn’t. I promise it won’t happen again.” Sherlock replied. John paused.  
“Which part.” Sherlock half smiled. John was smarter than he assumed.  
“I’ll try, John. I promise.” 

The rest of the class, they spent discussing the work, occasionally laughing at the God awful oil paintings that were in the text books. It filled John with a little confidence to know that Sherlock was at least going to try. He was reminded of when Harry used to self-harm, something that was caused by his parents divorce and looking after John. She stopped eventually, John never found out why. He pretended to never know in the first place. Sherlock seemed more complicated. John remembered the D on his test paper and argument they had before. Was that a contributing factor? He tried not to dwell on it out of fear of feeling that he was somehow responsible. 

At the end of the lesson, John waited outside the door for Sherlock to finish speaking to their teacher. It was a long conversation, longer than John expected, so he leant against the wall, half listening, half not.  
“Well Sherlock, you know from last year that I don’t mind extra tutoring if that’s what you need.”  
“I’m fine.” Sherlock responded. There was the scrape of a chair against the floor.  
“The offer still stands. I’m going to call your parents to try and arrange your classes so you have more time between lessons. Mr Smitham agrees.”  
“I know he does.” There was a pause and John heard Mr McGowan sigh.  
“Look, Sherlock. This is going to be a difficult year. If you need extensions or help, I’m happy to aid you in anyway. I know the school echo’s that. You’re a smart lad, you deserve to do well.”  
“Thank you, Sir.” He heard Sherlock reply. There was the sound of his feet against the wooden floor. John closed his eyes, pretending to not have listened. It made no difference, Sherlock would know John overheard regardless, so it seemed to not matter to him. 

“Alright?” John asked when Sherlock came out of the room. He continued walking and John had to jog to keep up.  
“Yes.” Sherlock responded simply, walking quickly down the stairs. 

That evening, Sherlock and John sat at their respective desks, bent over the text books they had gotten from class. John had not pressed further about Sherlock’s conversation with Mr McGowan. If he wanted to talk to him about it, Sherlock would have done so. Instead they formed friendly conversation about the previous exam (which Sherlock jokingly said was rigged in John’s favour) as well as John’s match the following week. Sherlock seemed to want to watch again which excited John. He didn’t take Sherlock as much as a sports man, in fact John was sure he didn’t even know how the game was played, so he hoped Sherlock wanted to come simply to support him.

“I’ve finished my section on the birth of Henry VIII.” John said to Sherlock, leaning back on his chair, his back crackling loudly.  
“My notes on Elizabeth of York are here.” Sherlock leant back also, their heads colliding. Immediately, they both began to laugh in a mixture of pain and humour. “Oh Goodness, John are you okay?” Sherlock said after he got his breath back. He was standing by John’s chair, his hand resting on the back and the other massaging his temple.  
“Yeah, Sherlock I’m fine. God, we’re so stupid.” John chuckled, standing from his seat and walking directly into Sherlock’s body, causing him to fall back. “Oh shit, Sherlock. Sorry, are you alright?” Sherlock nodded, chuckling again.  
“Yes. Let’s go and get some ice packs, I can already feel a bump on my head.” 

So, the two headed down the stairs to the kitchen. They spoke in low whispers, their hushes giggles filling the empty room.  
“Here.” John handed Sherlock an icepack from inside the freezer. He watched the boy press it to the back of his head, chuckling lightly as he did so. “God we are ridiculous.”  
“Quite.” Sherlock responded, sitting on the arm chair nearest to the fireplace. John grabbed a pack for himself, the cold burning his finger tips before sitting in the seat across from Sherlock. They were silent for a moment, the embers in the fireplace glowing a gentle orange. John wondered if this was a health and safety risk to have an open fire with a small grate. Nonetheless, it looked very pretty. 

“John, I ought to say.” Sherlock began, and John looked up at him. “When I walk out, or I do things. They’re not your fault. You don’t have responsibility over me. I’m sorry. You shouldn’t feel as if you do and I’m sorry for putting you in these positions..” John held Sherlock’s eyes. He saw them soften a little. There was a knot forming in John’s stomach. Sherlock knew something, or at least he figured something out about what had happened before.  
“I know.” John replied simply and he saw Sherlock swallow gently.  
“Your friendship means a lot to me John.” He said. Sherlock’s sober sentiment almost knocked John sideways. “And I hate to think that you feel as if my behaviours are a consequence of your actions.” John nodded, massaging his slightly melted icepack in his hands, unsure of what to say.  
“Your friendship means a lot to me too, Sherlock. And I’ll try to remember, just…please be careful.” He paused. “And I’d prefer if you got some form of support.” They held each others gaze.  
“I’ll try.” Sherlock barely whispered and John nodded slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi,  
> i’m back again   
> i had my first few days of uni this week. very exciting.   
> again i have to express that this fic gets more intense as it goes. so please read with caution.   
> love to you all


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: Discussion of abuse

When John was younger, Harry would often come and get him in the middle of lessons, unannounced. It was occasionally to collect his lunch or money or to take him to an appointment. After a pay day, she would come and get him from the last lesson of the day, an hour early, and together they would go to the supermarket to buy food before their father could get his hands on the cash. John enjoyed those trips, the fruitless and pointless arguments over whether they should get branded bread or store bread. John knew it would be the cheaper option, the logo didn’t matter, but he jokingly caused conflict anyway. It was entertainment for the rather depressing trip, which became even more depressing when they saw how much money they had left for that months gas card.   
Once, in the middle of a maths exam, there was a knock on the door and, when the student was beckoned in, John saw it was Harry. She was in Sixth Form and thus did not have to wear uniform and looked serious and business like in her black dress. Her face was straight set, and she spoke to John’s teacher in a low tone. He could tell from the look on her face something was wrong – she had barely looked him in the eye when a lump formed hard and pressing in his throat. There was an underlying murmur from the class as John was excused from the lesson, shouldering his satchel bag as quickly as he could.   
“What’s happened?” John asked as they walked through the corridor’s to the school’s sign out office. Harry was walking fast, her eyes down. She said nothing, nodding to the lady at the office door and pushing the door out of the building. From behind the gates, John could see a black car, what he assumed was a taxi.   
The journey had been silent other than Harry relaying directions to the driver, who did not look behind him. John daren’t ask what was wrong and settled in the silence, studying Harry’s face in effort to ignore the lump in his throat and the pulsating dread in the back of his head.   
It was his mother, of course, so there was little surprise waiting for John in that respect. He wasn’t sure why and, before they entered her wing of the hospital, Harry briefed him on what to expect in a tight voice.   
“Her face is bad, Johnny.” Harry had also taken to calling him Johnny, but it was reserved for particularly bad moments. “Swollen. Just to warn you.” And John didn’t have to ask who did it or what happened for he knew. The intricacies didn’t matter to him, whether it was a punch or a bottle, it was the same result in the end. And when he saw his mother’s face, it was one he was eerily aware he was familiar to. 

This is how John felt currently, sitting in the back a car he was guided to midway through biology. A man in a black tie and blazer had knocked on the door of the class, his face similar to Harry’s, and he was requested. John was unsure whether to go with him, the darkness of the character causing the insects to buzz loudly. It was only after Sherlock brushed his hand in an effort to be comforting, that John stood from his seat and followed the man. It felt as though he were about to disappear, but Sherlock’s purposeful movement had reassured him somehow. Perhaps Sherlock knew what was happening?   
The entire journey had been in silent and John watched the tree-line of the countryside change shape and width. He loved car journey’s but, of course, liked them less when he was essentially being kidnapped. After what may have been 5 minutes, or 45, the car slowed, its wheels grinding on the loose stones below. The door was opened and John was invited out and, for a moment, he was blinded by the sunlight.

He was standing by a building that looked simir to the school, except more cottage like. It was a seemingly small building and John noticed the wisteria climbing the mismatched bricks as he was guided inside. 

The room he was now sat in was white, with a large desk which was empty and a few paintings on the walls. He guessed it was some form of office, the tall cabinet in the corner marked with some labelling system, although John was too far away to see the inscription. He was slightly on edge, his fingers running the rough polyester of his blazer between his fingers. John could not begin to imagine why he was here, and the office gave little to no information about it’s owner. 

Suddenly, the door opened with a squeak and a man wearing a navy pinstripe suit approached him, extending his hand towards John. In slight distress, John stood, knocking the table with his knees as he did so and clearing his throat. He had startling blue eyes, framed by a crop of receding ginger hair and heavy set cheeks surrounding his flat mouth.   
“Hello John.” He said in a tone that was not familiar nor cold. John swallowed.   
“Hello.” John replied, sitting back into his wooden chair. It took more brain power than John realised and he almost missed the seat. The man said nothing and lent back, folding one leg over the other and steepling his hands under his chin. He seemed to be studying John, who couldn’t help but look down at the desk, which now had a folder set on it with his name written on its side. There was a twinge of fear in John’s throat, but he chose to ignore it, waiting for it to pass. The man had still said nothing, his steepled fingers flexing slightly as he thought. After a moment, he sighed.   
“What’s your relationship to Sherlock Holmes?” He asked and, although it was a simple question it set John’s mind into a flurry. Still, he distrusted this mysterious character so licked his lips in thought before replying in a steady voice.   
“He’s my room mate.” And the man nodded, spinning round John’s folder to face him, a large finger pointing to his ‘basic profile page’ which had been collated. John tried not to focus on the fact that there was an information page formed by some random man on him.   
“You share room 221b, don’t you?” John nodded, looking at the page which was dotted with information about John’s academia. He let out a silent sigh of relief when he saw no family details listed. “Interesting.” John almost laughed, slowly realising that this was a theatrical performance. “Sherlock Holmes has a number of…challenges. As his roommate,” He said this with narrowed eyes as if he did not believe John.“I feel as though you deserve to have information given to you. You ought to be briefed and to be briefed and prepared.” John nodded again, slower this time, the thoughts of the Friday before clawing his attention. He found himself gripping the edge of the table, clearing his throat.   
“Sorry, who are you?” John asked. He didn’t want to be fed some bullshit by a random man, but something about him was familiar, but John could not pinpoint what.   
“The most powerful man you have ever met, Mr Watson, and Sherlock Holmes’ closest friend.” Again, dramatics. John was about to protest that that was not an answer, but ‘The Most Powerful Man’ began to speak again. “Sherlock is plagued with many an affliction, mentally.” He looked up at John, smiling with his mouth closed and shutting John’s folder. “He has been self harming” John cringed at the blasé way he said it. “Oh John, you cannot ignore these things. He has been self harming since very young, some internal torment. I, for one, cannot figure it out. It ceased for sometime for the first time in a long while in September and October, before he up-took it again in late October. Can you think of a trigger?” The floor suddenly opened to him, John found his head submerged in discomfort.   
“Uh, no.” He replied and again the pin stripe counterpart was studying him before nodding.   
“I see. Well, Sherlock Holmes is a most peculiar boy. You must have seen yourself. I’m surprised that you’re friends with him at all.” John felt his back bristle, suddenly wanting to argue against what this man was saying about his friend.   
“What?” John said defensively. The pin suited man smiled.  
“Already attached? As I said, Sherlock does not have friends, yet here you are. You.” He fumbled with the edge of the folder’s paper, looking past John’s shoulder and towards the window behind him, watching something move by. “So this is me, extending my hand to you, John Watson. Clearly, you are interesting enough for Sherlock Holmes to befriend you, dare I say trust you. Although he does not often do that. We are on the same team, you and I.” Again, John had to stop himself from laughing. It was almost purely done for dramatics.  
“And which team is that?” He cleared his throat again, the man cocking his eyebrow in response, standing from his chair.   
“It’s time to pick a side, Mr Watson.” And with that he left the room.

\----

John was guided back to the car swiftly after, his thoughts cloudy and confused. He wasn’t sure which team this man meant, who this man was or if being on the same team was a good thing. It was hurried journey back to the school and John could hardly remember it at all. There was the underlying stab of fear bubbling restlessly at the back of his head.   
When he finally made his way back to the dorm, John found Sherlock curled up on his bed, reading. 

“Hello John.” He remarked softly, looking up from his book. “Are you okay?” John sat on his own bed, stretching his legs in front of him and squeezing the cuff of his sleeve.  
“I think so…” He paused, looking up to see Sherlock’s eyes. “I think I was just kidnapped.” Sherlock laughed in a way that to John sounded almost like a purr.  
“What do you mean, kidnapped?” And so John explained as dead pan as his possibly could, Sherlock’s eyes not leaving John’s face as he listened intently. After John stopped talking, Sherlock paused for a moment, shaking his head slightly before smiling loosely.   
“That’s Mycroft.” He said, rising from his bed and shelving his book. John furrowed his brows in disbelief.”  
“As in your brother, Mycroft?”   
“Yes.” Sherlock laughed again, taking a running jump onto his bed. “He has the flare for the dramatics.”   
“Your brother kidnapped me?”  
“I’d hardly say it was a kidnap John.” Sherlock said with a smile, pulling a cigarette from his breast pocket.   
“Then what do you call it?” He cried in disbelief. Sherlock snickered, running his hands through his hair.   
“It’s just Mycroft being friendly.” And he lit the fag that hung from his mouth.  
“Friendly! Friendly! I was told to get into an unmarked, black car, wasn’t told where I was being taken and then was told to sit in a room by myself until your…your brother spoke to me about my personal life!” John exclaimed, gesturing wildly with his hands outstretched. All the while, Sherlock took a drag, shaking his head and giggling at John’s dramatisation.   
“Well, don’t get in unmarked cars.” Sherlock remarked, tapping ash into a nearby glass. John sighed. “What did you expect?” Before John could argue, Sherlock cut him off again. “John I’m joking. I’ll speak to Mycroft next time I see him.” John flashed him a disgruntled look. “I’m being serious, I will. What did he say to you?” John lay back on his pillow, shaking his head, watching Sherlock breathe in the cigarette.   
“He just wanted to know my relationship. To you.” Sherlock nodded.  
“And what did you say? John paused, meeting Sherlock’s eyes.  
“That you’re my roommate.” He nodded. “Which you are. You are my…roommate.”   
“That’s true. What did he say about me?” John cleared his throat, cringing as he did.   
“Nothing.”   
“Don’t lie, John.”   
“I’m not.” Sherlock flicked his eyebrow in disbelief. “I’m not. Not really. Just.” He paused. “Just mentioned what I already know.” John emphasised the I, hoping that it was explicit to Sherlock without him having to say anything. Sherlock smirked a little, stubbing out his fag on a coaster.   
“How nice of him.” He quipped and John shrugged, cracking his knuckles. There was silence for a moment and John watched Sherlock open the window, the air already chilly with the autumnal air. “I should start wearing jumpers,” John smiled at the thought of Sherlock wearing a blue cable knit. “it’s becoming cold.”  
“Sherlock.” And the boy turned around, his face half illuminated by the twilight. “I’m sorry about Mycroft. I promise you he didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know before.” Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed, stippling his fingers in thought.   
“It matters not.” Sherlock replied, brushing off the conversation. “Who did he say he was?”   
“The most powerful man I have ever met.” Which made Sherlock chuckle and John found himself smiling.   
“He’s not wrong though. He is the most powerful man I know.” He stared off into the distance for a moment before shaking his head. “He’s such a dickhead.” John laughed.  
“He’s not like you.” He replied and Sherlock nodded in a way that made John feel as though he may have hurt his feelings. “You’re more interesting.” And Sherlock let out a single laugh.  
“Is that what we’re calling it nowadays?” John’s cheeks flushed red.  
“What I mean is that you’re more intelligent. More charismatic. More…”   
“It’s okay John, you’ve stroked my ego enough.” And for some reason, both boys began to laugh, the smoky air now clear and cold. 

When they went down to dinner, the conversation was light and warm and to John it felt as though Friday never existed. As though Sherlock’s friendship, his relationship to him, was stable and strong and secure. Even though John knew it wouldn’t last, he still held on to the thought that maybe things were better.


	22. Chapter 22

John’s rugby game was the next day. It was cold and damp, the proper start of winter. Sherlock stood next to Mike and Greg, who were talking amongst themselves, wrapped in his favourite black coat. The Boys, as they called themselves now, had joked that Sherlock over dressed for every occasion, for a rugby match he donned a white shirt and trousers, but Sherlock had smiled and told them that it was the first match of the season, so of course he’d make an effort. In reality, he liked the routine of the outfits. He knew he was attractive, and he looked most attractive in suits. Anything else felt dirty, or wrong, as if he were a rat wearing human clothes. Moreover, the texture of the shirt against his skin was the only one that didn’t make him feel as though he were about to scream, so it was a win-win situation. 

Sherlock wished he could have the variety that John modelled. He was almost envious of his jumpers and polos and t-shirts. The colours, the textures, he seemed to look nice in everything. Sherlock fancied a jumper of his own, but they didn’t flatter him he way that the shirts did. He watched John stretch on the field and could tell he was nervous. It was his first match day after all. Sherlock didn’t understand why John was involved in such a ridiculous game, but it seemed to bring him some joy, so Sherlock humoured him. It was so un-john like. The small, studious, quiet boy playing rough and tumble, it was almost laughable. Sherlock invested his interest in him for the simple reason that it added dimension to John.   
Sometimes, in idle moments, Sherlock found himself wondering what got John into rugby in the first place. He wondered if it was a primary school teacher, a drive to be fit and untouchable or, as Sherlock suspected, a more sinister reason. John was complex, there were so many question marks that hung in Sherlock’s vision whenever he thought of John, trying to make sense of his life story. He knew that there was a reason why his behaviour affected John so, there was a reason why he seemed to hold onto Sherlock’s coat tails with desperation despite the burning pile of waste that he was. There was more to John than there seemed to be with others. More angles and additions and colours. 

With the blow of a whistle, the game begun, and Sherlock found himself drifting his gaze to John, who was currently standing still, rather than on the ball. It frustrated him, being unable to unlock John. It was easy to do with others – they opened up so easily. Take Mike, for example, his family had a large amount of money, his grandmother acting as the head of family with all the wealth. He flaunted it, not purposefully, but obviously enough. He always wore a heavy strapped Rolex on his wrist, his glasses from some brand like Gucci or Prada. His shoes always perfectly souled, the leather well kept. They were small things, but they made Mike appear more like a person, he was sure he could ask Mike what car he drove, what clothes brand he wore and Mike would tell him. John, however, falsely opened up. He said enough that made him appear approachable and interesting (which he was) but it was a façade. He had a sister, some form of parental figure, but after that it was lost. It was purposeful, all of it, from the jumpers he wore to the work he did. It all acted as a wall against the outside world. Sherlock scuffed his foot against the soft ground in frustration. He wished John would trust him more outwardly, but somehow knew that would never happen. He was a puzzle, not one that necessarily needed to be solved, but one that he wanted to see the picture of. One that he wanted to understand yet Sherlock knew John would never allow that. At least not for a while. 

He watched John catch the ball, Greg and Mike cheering next to him as John did what Sherlock assumed to be the right thing. He was fast, admirably so, the muscles in his legs contracting and releasing quickly, buldging from his thighs. Another aspect of John that seemed bemuse him – he wanted to watch him all the time. As if studying him intensely would unlock something to Sherlock that would otherwise be lost. When John wasn’t looking, Sherlock would watch him work. There was no particular reason, but he was just pleasant to look at. It was the small details that interested him most, the small furrow of John’s brows, the way he licked his lips when confused, the way he would re-read what he’d written every 90 seconds, nodding to himself as he did. 

It wasn’t attraction. He was sure of this. His entire life, Sherlock had been taught that homosexuality, in any form, was wrong. In mass, at Sunday School, he was told by the Father that even thinking in a homosexual way was wrong because God could read his thoughts. Of course, Sherlock knew that there was no God, that the religion he was bought up under was more of a cult used to control people rather than a house of an omnipotent being. But even then, small increments of the preachers teachings would somehow infiltrate his brain, poisoning it black with teachers. Even so, it was attraction – John was simply interesting.   
And yet, he couldn’t help but think back to the night in the field, when they were both hazed with drunkenness and fuelled by something else that they almost slept together. Was that attraction? Sherlock simply concluded that it was some attempt to know him better, understand him somehow. He was certain that he didn’t want to be with John sexually. The alcohol had clouded the memory, making Sherlock feel dumb and slow, yet he was sure that he wasn’t sexually inclined. As far as he was aware, that was left to less intelligent people – Sherlock believed that he didn’t have the space in his brain to be turned on.

“Good play, John!” Mike called next to him. The whistle had been blown for half time and John was walking from his corner, passed them and towards the hut. The boy had stuck his hand up to wave in response, a sheepish grin on his face. Sherlock noticed how John’s gaze seemed to be meeting his.

A moment, passed, the pitch emptying of people in kit. Sherlock looked at the boys next to him. A joke had passed between them and now they were looking to Sherlock with small smile on their mouth.   
“He’s playing well, isn’t he.” Mike said, nodding towards the pitch. Greg said something about tactical play (Sherlock was sure the words Greg was using were not actually English) before Mike said something to him.  
“Pardon, Mike.” Sherlock responded, his brain not quite catching up with the information.  
“I said ‘what do you think about the game?’” Sherlock paused, squinting at the grey sky above before looking back to Mike.   
“It’s very…yes.”   
“Very yes?” Mike replied, clearly humoured.   
“I don’t really understand what is going on, I won’t lie to you.” He heard Greg laugh. “But as long as John’s team wins.”   
“Then why do you come?” Greg asked and Sherlock shrugged.   
“I’m John’s friend and it’d be rude not to.” He saw Greg raise an eyebrow.   
“Friends eh?” Greg teased.   
“Greg leave it.” Mike cut, shoving his shoulder.   
“Shut up Michael.” There was a pause. “What’s going on between you and John, Sherlock?” 

For some reason, the question floored him, as vivid memories from Brighton and the field and nights spent in their dorm room laughing together, inches away from each other’s face, the room warm with their breaths and something else. What is going on? Friendship? More than friendship? But the words from his upbringing seemed to scream no. A simple question, less than 10 words, and suddenly years of suppression or ignorance or both seemed to crash down on him. He swallowed firmly, rebuilding the wall in his mind until he could steady his voice enough.

“John and I are just friends, Gavin, as I’m sure John himself has told you before. It’s almost perverted that you’ve created this fantasy in your head that John and I are secretly together. I suppose you imagine that we disappear to our dorms at allocated times to have sexual intercourse and then deny everything. This isn’t gossip, Gavin, it is real life, and your hyper fixation on John and I’s relationship is odd at least and truly disturbing when I really think about it. So, try and think about your own lack of sex life, because no one believes you went and fucked a girl at the other school, instead of instilling your sexual insecurities onto others.” There was silence and Sherlock sighed. Greg muttered something incoherent to Sherlock, but his eyes were burning so badly that he could not listen, his head filled with anger and frustration. He felt his vision grow cloudy just as John walked onto the pitch, who waved to him from a distance, before fluffing his curly and staring off into the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello,  
> sorry for the absence, ive just had some family health scares to deal with lol! global pandemic am i right. the coming chapters were due for christmas but im trying not to beat myself up about it. how have things been with you? thank you for the support :)


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